


Raindrops - Tom Riddle

by armanivs



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Adoption, Draco Malfoy - Freeform, F/M, Harry Potter - Freeform, Heir of Slytherin, Lucretia Black - Freeform, Morally Grey Hermione, Nagini - Freeform, Parselmagic, Parseltongue, Slytherin, Time Travel, Tom Riddle Sr. - Freeform, abraxas malfoy - Freeform, hermione granger adopts tom riddle, tomione - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-01
Updated: 2021-03-04
Packaged: 2021-03-08 01:42:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 24,657
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26877622
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/armanivs/pseuds/armanivs
Summary: "Hello, Tom Riddle." Hermione cooed, gently stroking the infant's soft cheek with the pad of her thumb. "I'm Hermione Alarie, and I'm here to stop you from causing trouble."
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Tom Riddle Sr., Tom Riddle/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 236
Kudos: 398





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer applies to all chapters henceforth:  
> This fanfiction is purely for non-profit and fun, all rights to the canon characters and the Harry Potter Universe belongs to J.K. Rowling. This is a work of fiction and imagination. Events described in this fic that has any resemblance to reality is most likely a coincidence unless stated otherwise.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Taking a moment to relax in the aftermath of a war won by the terrorising Lord Voldemort, Hermione finds herself hurtled back in time to build herself a life and create a better future.

The gentle scents and soothing ripples of a mixture of hot water and luxurious bath salts and soaps ebbed away the fatigue from her aching muscles. Three years had passed since the fall of Harry Potter during the Battle of Hogwarts. Lord Voldemort, the dark wizard who had yet to cease his relentless torture imposed on all those not of pureblood, had staked claim over Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Many innocent citizens of the public defected to the Dark for their safety and the numbers of the Order of the Phoenix had dwindled as at least two members faced death at the hands of the Death Eaters.

Hermione Granger, after the tragic demises of half-blood Harry Potter and pureblood Ron Weasley, had occupied the spot of Undesirable #1 for the duration of the war. Seeking shelter within the muggle world had proven futile as Britannia's population as a whole decreased as the muggle residents were perturbed by the frequent, horrific appearances of dead bodies.

The twenty-two-year-old witch released a series of choked sobs as her mind recounted all those she had lost, all those she had grieved and mourned for, and all those she still fought for. The last time she permitted herself to cry as loudly as she did in the centre of a bathtub conjured by the Room of Requirement had been on the courtyard of Hogwarts when Voldemort announced Harry's death. The professors, aurors, students and children alike had waited anxiously for a miracle that would give them reason to continue their fight rather than give up and surrender hopelessly.

The miracle never arrived.

Though the golden trio had managed to destroy all of their arch-nemesis' horcruxes with the aid of third parties, the transformation to mortality had not affected Lord Voldemort's diabolical plans and even though the loss of his familiar – Nagini – had been tragic; the nose-less, serpentine-like man held little regard as he continued to take over Britain and eventually over the entirety of the UK.

Hermione had pleaded, begged, grovelled for international aid by foreign ministries to no avail. The other countries were reluctant to help as they wished to keep their own communities safe; instead, they had imposed a ban to travelling into Britain which had a further detrimental effect on those holding the slightest candle of hope for a brighter, calmer, safer future.

When had everything gone so inexplicably wrong? Hermione wondered as she patted herself dry with a soft towel. What caused a single man to enact revenge in such a cruel, gruesome manner?

Clicking her tongue, she sat down on the plush sofa provided by the Room, droplets of water dripping from the cleansed tips of her hair. On a loose piece of parchment, she scrawled the offending name **_TOM MARVOLO RIDDLE_** with a muggle biro. Shutting her eyes, the witch forced herself to delve into the earlier memories that she had of conversations with Harry relating to the formidable wizard. Each fact she remembered was hastily scribbled on until she finally exhausted the last of her sources.

**_DOB: 31/12/1926_ **

**_Mother: Merope Gaunt (descendant of Salazar Slytherin), Pureblood_ **

**_Father: Tom Riddle, Muggle (abandoned)_ **

**_Heir to Slytherin_ **

**_Childhood residence: Wool's Orphanage, London_ **

**_Last human appearance: Dark (black) hair, green eyes_ **

**_Fear: Presumably death, incarceration_ **

**_Spouse(s): None_ **

**_Conception through Amortentia – unable to love?_ **

Hermione scoffed, "Bullshit, anybody can love." Then as she continued ciphering, understanding, the facts presented before her, "Hatred for muggles stemmed by the abandonment of his father and forced to return to an orphanage that couldn't possibly have been up to the standards that they are now given the era..."

When more and more innocent children had become orphaned, Hermione had been surprised when the Dark had opened four orphanages to remove pure and half-blood children off of the street. It was common ideology that children were blessings, gifts that were not to be uncared for. She had once visited an orphanage that housed Teddy Lupin and was thoroughly taken aback at the propriety and welcoming vibes the place gave. The residents looked relatively happy and upon inspection were clean of any traces of the imperious and any other subservient curses.

Lord Voldemort seemed to have a soft spot for most magical orphans. Excluding Mudbloods.

A bright glint caught Hermione's eye, prompting her to stand with her wand brandished defensively in front of her chest at a cloaked, unmoving _thing_. She edged closer slowly, ripping the white sheet off once her thin fingers curled around the dusty fabric. Engraved into the upper part of the golden frame were words written of an archaic language, though from the many tales from Harry she recognised it as the Mirror of Erised.

"The Mirror of Desire," she breathed shakily, her eyes tearing up as the faces of her lost friends and family that she had orphaned herself from slowly faded into view. Her true isolation, deprivation, loneliness hit her like a bullet train when the reflection of her pseudo brother waved at her with a familiar grin. "H-Harry?" she whimpered, her bottom lip trembling uncontrollably as another stream of tears slid over her damp cheeks.

The ghostly reflection nodded and gave her a thumbs up with a cheeky wink before slowly pointing towards a small figure that had appeared by her own reflection. Directing her gaze towards it, she made out the face of an unfamiliar boy, no older than the age of four, clinging to the hem of a dress – her dress – that resembled the fashion of the interwar period. The boy looked eerily similar to Harry; dark brown locks falling neatly over his forehead, alabaster skin and haunting, guarded onyx eyes that showed hints of green as the image of his figure faded and appeared repeatedly.

Glancing down at her own attire, Hermione gasped as the clothing she had put on before had vanished; replaced by a regal, burgundy gown with long sleeves and a soft cape adorned with intricate patterns of gold that trailed behind her. Upon closer inspection, the witch recognised ancient runes that she had studied over her third year when she had been granted with permission of use of the time turner that was now the only one left in existence.

As if the realisation of the runes was the necessary power required to kick start the proverbial car, Hermione felt a strong tug at her navel that caused her to turn, stumble and tumble around in a harsh gale force that nearly made her throw up as the aura surrounding the mirror shifted into a familiar temporal one. It sucked her towards it with the force of an untameable vacuum and quite literally threw the wind out of her.

Stumbling onto rough, cobbled pavement, Hermione collapsed into a heap on the cold, icy stone. Her lungs shrieked for oxygen forcing her to take a moment to recuperate before assessing her situation with her wand held tightly in her hand. Soft, white flakes of snow brushed against her as they glided to the ground; some melting by the heat of her cheek leaving her colder than before without any thicker cloak to shield her from the biting cold.

Something heavy weighed her down. Casting a quick “Lumos,” she saw a small black gym bag containing numerous papers of false identities and an average sized pouch of golden galleons that would presumably allow her to last long enough until she found a stable source of income. Hermione recognised the fairly clean area as Diagon Alley, for the telling (now not so crooked or run down) sign of her cherished bookstore made itself prominent under the soft glow of candle light.

“Are you lost, Ma’am?” a deep voice said from behind her. Pivoting on the balls of her feet, a small gasp escaped her lips as she was unable to control the name from spilling off of her tongue.

“Harry?” she gulped, taking in the older man’s complexion.

The dark haired, dark eyed man let out a deep, throaty chuckle whilst shaking his head. “Not quite, that’s my father’s nickname. Though it is rather odd that a woman your age knows that grumpy brute.”

Hermione bit her lip, willing back tears as she came to the conclusion that man in front of her was either a descendant or an ancestor of her pseudo brother. “Sir, if you don’t mind me asking, what year is it?” she asked, trying her best to conceal the shiver brought on by a gust of chilling wind.

The Potter relation laughed jovially, his eyes light with mirth as he caught her rubbing her arms. Shrugging off his thick robe he wrapped it around her, “Silly chit, it’s New Years Eve! One would have thought to put on some thicker clothes before leaving the house, ey?”

Hermione smiled in gratitude but shook her head, hastily adopting a more French accent that she had learnt during her childhood as a muggle, “Yes, though I am not from here. I was escaping so finding over robes wasn’t a safe option,”

“Grindelwald?” the man offered her a sympathetic smile.

It took Hermione a few minutes to recall the biography of the dark wizard from the numerous books she had devoured in search to collect the biographies of Lord Voldemort. Grindelwald had been the prevailing Dark Lord that had terrorised the continent only to be defeated by his former paramour, Albus Dumbledore, in mid 1945. Passing off her moment of recollection as remembrance of memories she’d rather bury, the time traveller shot the Potter ancestor a weak smile. “I come with hopes that next year is better than the last. I’m Hermione.. Alarie,” she introduced. Blood purity politics was far worse (disregarding the direct war in 1997) in the muggle interwar period, and as a female mudblood, she may as well have had a better chance at living as a house elf. "Of the Ancient and Noble House of Alarie from France."

The Alarie’s were a family that had been killed at the hands of Grindelwald in 1926 and the dark wizard had used their money as his cause’s primary funding. If she had arrived later than 1926 but not so late that the man had gained complete access to the family’s vaults, Hermione could claim the name and continue the family magic as much as she could so long as the magic accepted her.

And if the man noticed the slight hesitation in mentioning her surname, he didn’t say anything, “Charlus Potter of the Ancient and Noble House of Potter,” the man smirked as he lifted her trembling hand and placed warm lips to her cold knuckles, “That explains your odd yet beautiful attire. I’d like to extend an invitation for you to stay at my family manor until you are able to find yourself a property to stay at,”

“Oh,” Hermione’s jaw dropped slightly, taken a back at his kindness despite being strangers to each other, “I do not wish to intrude-”

“Nonsense, girl!” he laughed causing the weak protests in Hermione’s throat to die immediately. The witch did require a place to stay long enough until she could figure out how to either escape or build a life with the name she had claimed of a soon to be extinct family, “My brother, Septimus, would love to have somebody to play with whilst I help my fiancée in planning our wedding,”

Hermione smiled, “Who will be the lucky Mrs. Potter?”

A love sick sheen glazed over the brown eyed man’s orbs as he sighed wistfully at the thought of his fiancée, “My childhood sweetheart, Dorea Black,”

At least so far the events in the timeline were remaining the same. From what Hermione could remember on the magical family tree on the wall of Grimmauld Place, Dorea had been betrothed to Charlus since they were in their nappies and had lead a peaceful life together, giving birth to the mischievous Marauder, James Potter.

Clearing her throat, she asked, “Sir I am unmarried, I do not wish to blacken your family name for simply showing me kindness…”

Charlus threw her a smirk, “Ah, Ms Alarie. We Potters are not known for following the rules,”

“Then I suppose it is settled,” Hermione grinned, “I accept your invitation,”

Smirking at her assent through dark lashes, Charlus kissed her knuckles once more before pulling her into a side along apparition; the last thought flitting across Hermione’s mind as she left the familiar yet not grounds of Diagon Alley being: _There was no turning back._


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Baby Tom Riddle makes an appearance.

“I take it that you like it,” Charlus stated with a knowing smirk playing on his lips at the sight of the witch’s ajar jaw.

Hermione nodded enthusiastically, tamed curls bouncing lightly on her back, “It is simply _magnifique_ , Mr Potter,”

Potter Manor truly was a sight to behold. It resembled Malfoy Manor in both structure and size though to exterior décor was light and welcoming. An elegant fountain greeted them in the centre of the courtyard, the statue of the greek goddess Amphitrite glowing ambiently due to the soft light emitted by the many magical fireflies flitting about the grounds. Closer to the ancestral building, Hermione noticed an arrogant couple of hippogriffs watching them with calculating, intimidating gazes.

Supressing a fond, reminiscent giggle at the bout of nostalgia she experienced from her memory of Buckbeak, Malfoy and Harry, she turned to Charlus, “Are they friendly?”

“If you are not a threat and you show them respect, then yes,”

"So... do you like?" Charlus asked curiously, a knowing smirk playing on his lips at the sight of Hermione's jaw slightly ajar.

Her eyebrows raised in amusement, “So they are essentially your… uh how do the English say...” she kept her french façade, “Bodyguards?”

“One could say,” he chuckled as he stepped through the magically opened doors. Calling for a house elf, he commanded it to do something, prompting it to disappear with a crack and another to take its place moments later. Turning to Hermione, he informed, “Blinky will show you to your rooms and Twinky will pop by to give you dinner. If you would like to join my family and Dorea’s family in our New Year celebrations, you are more than welcome to. Other than that, enjoy your stay and I will see you in the morning,”

Hermione nodded demurely, “I am truly grateful for your hospitality, Charlus. As for the celebrations, I’m quite tired from my escape so I think I’ll sit out of this one. I promise, I’ll be out of your hair as soon as possible,”

Charlus frowned, “There is no need to be hasty, Hermione,”

The witch shrugged, “I want to return to normality as quick as I can. I’m sure I can get the ministry to speed up the transferral process,”

“How exactly?”

“Vouloir, c’est pouvoir,” Hermione said softly, wiping her hands on her delicate dress as she reiterated one of the many French quotes her mother had told her, “When there is a will, there is a way. Have a good evening Mr Potter,” she curtsied and followed the house elf in front of her.

“Goodnight, Hermione

**ooOoo**

An exquisite feast had been delivered by the elf, much to Hermione’s chagrin. Although she knew the abundance of food was a simple act of conniving courtesy by the purebloods that showcased their wealth, the witch worried that her frail stomach accustomed to eating small measles every few days for survival could handle finishing even one plate. Despite her hatred towards the act of elf slavery, Hermione recognised that as a woman in an aristocracy her beloved S.P.E.W. organisation could not be restarted for she would be made a laughing stock and her life expectancy would be expected to dwindle.

The light pitter patter of a child’s footsteps drew her attention to the door to her room, revealing a short boy adorning black, fluffy pyjamas holding a stuffed hippogriff.

“Hello?” Hermione questioned, placing a friendly smile on her tired face.

“Hullo,” the boy replied shyly, “May I come in?”

“Of course,” the witch shifted on her bed to give space for the little boy to sit, “Are you the brother Charlus had been talking to me about?”

The boy flushed as he sat beside her, “I’m Septimus,”

Hermione faked a gasp, “ _The_ Septimus Potter?” she squealed quietly as she took his small hands in hers, “Oh my!”

Septimus grinned, his childish laughter infectious as he rapidly nodded his head.

“Well Mister Potter,” Hermione said once she calmed, “I am most honoured to be in your presence. Is there anything I can do for you?”

“No,” Septimus denied, “I just wanted to see who the pretty lady Charlie said was staying for a bit,”

“I’m Hermione Alarie, but you can call me Hermione,”

“Herm… Hermy… huh?”

Hermione giggled, “Hermy’s good too,”

Septimus grinned, “Okay Lady Hermy, I have to go to sleep now. I’ll see you at breakfast?”

“Definitely,”

Asking Blinky for the latest copy of the Daily Prophet as the little boy toddled back to wherever he appeared from, Hermione scanned over the article in search of the date which was printed in bold: **31/12/1926**.

The exact date of baby Lord Voldemort’s birth.

Absently chewing on her lower lip, the curly haired witch wondered what the Slytherin Heir would be like if he had grown up under the loving care of someone. Would nature outlast nurture or would the shift in environment and an increase in love implicated on him eradicate Lord Voldemort’s hatred of muggles?

A proverbial light bulb switched on within her mind as an idea that she considered to be mad settled. Her biological clock had been ticking, and with the numerous dark spells her body had suffered under, the witch did not know of the state of her womb and whether she was able to be impregnated. Even if she could, she could save the world from the horrors of a vengeful boy trapped in an orphanage and give him a sibling to dote his affections – if he has any – on.

It was a crazy, harebrained idea but if she played it right, so much could be saved. Harry would have his parents; Ron would still be alive; Malfoy wouldn’t be forced to take the Dark Mark; Dumbledore wouldn’t have to die; Snape wouldn’t have to risk his life as a double agent and her parents… well she didn’t know what exactly would happen to them.

Steeling her resolve, Hermione nodded to herself in the mirror. Once she had secured her finances and claimed the name of the family she would essentially be saving if the magic allowed her, she would visit Wool’s Orphanage and take Tom Marvolo Riddle under her wing.

**ooOoo**

Borrowing a Potter owl – a regal, black feathered eagle – Hermione sent forth the details she knew of the Alarie’s once the clock had struck noon. Midday of the first day of 1927, the bodies of the deceased family would have been identified and Grindelwald would not be able to retain access to their gold and secrets until seven days for existing immediate family members to reclaim their birthrights. Gringotts had replied within two hours asking for a face-to-face conference in order to confirm the familial matching of the magical signatures that titled her as a legitimate heir to the fortune.

Escorted by Charlus, Hermione silently cast a ward with multiple obliviation spells and reformed memories that acted upon those who entered the room whilst they were put up. Ensuring they were impenetrable, the time traveller pensively reached out to the small sample of Alarie magic and allowed for its curiosity to be sated as it explored the complex web that was Hermione’s magical core. She realised that the sample was an ancient one – possibly predating around a century – as although it felt stale in comparison to hers, the intensity it packed within the small amount nearly overwhelmed her.

Hermione felt the Alarie magic intertwining with hers pleasantly, prompting a small smile to flicker over her glossed lips as she recognised the acceptance. The old magic, void of a life host for around a hundred years, was happy to morph and adapt to the aura of Hermione Granger, now Alarie.

The process had gone quicker than she had anticipated, thus with a flick of her wand she removed the memory adapting wards and left the wizarding bank with hundreds of thousands to her name including family properties which settled the fear in Hermione’s heart that she wouldn’t be capable of giving Tom Riddle a comfortable life.

Blinking as Hermione and Charlus landed in the Potter Foyer after having shopped for magical necessities and house-warming gifts that the Potter heir insisted on, the woman mused internally that writing a novella would be in order. It was a good way of ensuring that her past and hopefully the forgotten future would be recorded in some way and it wouldn’t impose a threat so long as she managed to ensure a vow would be taken before it could be read.

Claiming the unused Alarie Estate in Wiltshire which she thought was rather blandly named, Hermione thanked the Potters with a hug and ruffled Septimus’ hair kindly before leaving them with her address. With a few hours till sundown, the witch apparated into central London, intent on buying little trinkets to adorn the barren walls of her new abode and to purchase fresh copies of her favourite muggle books that she hoped to expose Tom Riddle to in order to curb his hatred towards muggles. After selecting a multitude of Shakespeare’s plays and Charles Dickens’ novellas, Hermione huffed in annoyance as she realised that some of her other favourite muggle books were published in later years thus forcing her to succumb and choose between tomes that looked intriguing upon skimming.

Depositing her shopping in the foyer of her estate, Hermione bit her lip as she threw up her war wards with the intention to reset them once she had adopted Tom Riddle and brought him home. Nodding to herself, Hermione apparated into a darkened corner of the Leaky Cauldron and embarked on the thirty minute walk to Wool’s Orphanage. Despite wearing robes that she had warming charms weaved within the material, the witch couldn’t help but shiver as a cloud of smoke left her mouth as she breathed in the frosty air.

Adjusting her sleeves to cover her hands as much as possible, Hermione comforted herself with the presence of her sleek wand as she passed through a darkened alley. Although the streets were practically desolate as the weather forbade any sane man or woman from traversing the streets without reason, the habit that had come from war to be prepared at all times was one she did not intend to break simply because she had been thrust into an era different to her own.

“Excuse me, Madame,” the witch dropped her faux French accent as there was nil chances of anybody remembering her once she returned to the wizarding world with Tom, “Would you know where I can find Wool’s Orphanage?”

The woman pushing a pram with a sleeping child bundled in a thick blanket stared at her cautiously, “Keep till the end of this street, take a right and it’ll be unmissable from there,” she leaned in slightly, her breath smelling of some kind of floral tea, “Are you certain you’d like to adopt from there, young miss? I’ve heard _things_ about the children there… they’re far from the easy lot,”

“A late family member of mine has recently birthed a child there. I intend on raising the child with the facilities required to look after a baby which I purchased about an hour ago. Thank you, happy new year!” Hermione shot her a cheerful smile before hastily following the directions given.

Wool’s Orphanage was an ashy grey brick building that had lasted with suffering through the elements of nature. Absently, Hermione noted that the building resembled more of a dreary prison or perhaps even a Victorian workhouse than a facility to raise the children of the country. Large, black gates with sharp spikes carved at the top prompted her to question whether its requirement was to keep thieves out or the children caged in like chickens.

Steeling herself, Hermione pushed through the creaky entrance and knocked rapidly on the door, adjusting her hair and the wand in her sleeve. A tired matron clad in a dirty, torn apron with breath smelling of alcohol answered. “Wool’s Orphanage,”

“I’m here to adopt a little boy, I have knowledge that he was born here yesterday?” Hermione asked, cutting straight to the point.

The matron – Mrs Cole as her tag labelled – narrowed her eyes suspiciously at the brunette girl, “Where’d ya hear that? That’d be private information ya got there,”

“Merope Riddle is a distant cousin of mine. I received a letter from her saying that she was due this week and that she would be giving birth here,” the witch lied.

Mrs Cole narrowed her eyes, “She didn’t mention anything about a cousin or a visitor,”

Smirking, Hermione whipped her wand out once she ensured there were no onlookers. “Confundus,” she whispered and watched in anticipation as the woman’s eyes glazed over with a sheen.

“I’m sorry, what did you say?”

“You were going to take me to sign the adoption papers for Tom Riddle.”

“Right,” the matron nodded as she moved to allow Hermione access, “What did you say your name was?”

“Alarie, Hermione Alarie.”

Another working matron had been sent to prepare baby Tom Riddle for his departure whilst Hermione forged herself an identity to use in the muggle world and signed with it to legally adopt the boy. An hour had passed and the last remaining rays of the sun had nearly sunk behind the horizon by the time Hermione was given permission to hold the baby as copies of the adoption certificate were made.

As she cradled the quiet baby in her arms, Hermione noted Tom’s premature figure. Either he hadn’t received enough nourishment in the womb or he was naturally small due to a premature birth – Hermione did not know. What she was certain of was that as he turned his soft, pink-flushed head slightly with his eyes flickering open and shut encased in the warmth of a blanket, that even if the effort proved futile, Hermione could die knowing that she had tried to ensure that nurture beat nature. That Lord Voldemort wouldn’t wreck havoc in the future.

Thus, when the baby’s breathing became laboured as though he was about to cry, Hermione brought him closer to her chest, her natural motherly instincts wanting to will away the tears from the eyes of the child who wouldn’t become a murderer for another decade. Even as a new born his magical core had already begun to form and despite its current messy nature, she could feel it reaching out to her, yearning for warmth and stability in a realm that would detest him for his gifts.

As she felt him try to wriggle closer to her body heat, Hermione smiled when his cries calmed into soft whimpers as one of her hands rubbed his back soothingly. Perhaps if she had landed in 1938 or even 1950 and shown the boy the love and affection he internally craved but refused to admit, he would give up on his diabolical schemes for his fondness.

But she had landed in 1926 and had been given the slytherin baby as a fresh slate for her to morph into an intelligent boy that could take over the country by politics than by blood.

Dark, onyx orbs with hints of green – much like the boy in the Mirror of Erised – stared at her with the curiosity of a new born. Tiny, fleshy fingers with small nails rested on the skin of her neck inciting a rush of longing to raise the child to build within her. A little tuft of dark brown – almost black – hair lay flat under the cover of the dull, roughly textured baby hat. Hermione found it difficult – practically impossible – to imagine the child silently begging for her to remove him from the disgrace of an institute as a soulless murderer.

With a warm kiss to his flushed cheek, Hermione took upon the job to mother the boy into a respectable man that would have his soul intact as it should be instead of tossed around trapped inside artefacts that could be destroyed.

“Hello, Tom Riddle,” she cooed, gently stroking the sleeping infant’s soft skin with the pad of her thumb, “I’m Hermione Alarie and I’m here to stop you from causing trouble.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heyyy,  
> Please let me know in the comments if you can help me translate some sentences and phrases and such into french. Google Translate just isn't cutting it and I will definitely give you credit every time I use it. :)  
> How are you?


	3. Chapter 3

When Hermione landed in her foyer, she growled in frustration at her idiocy. Hermione Granger who had fought in a blood war and had retained each and every spell she had learnt during her life as a witch and had even been dubbed as the Brightest Witch of Her Age had forgotten to buy nappies.

She had purchased everything from a crib to a multitude of clothes and pacifiers only to forget to buy the one thing that was an absolute necessity.

It was only when she began to search for the bags she had dropped prior to her departure to the orphanage that she realised they were missing. Checking her wards, the defensive magic showed no signs of intrusion save for a minuscule speck which she identified as an elf.

“Elf!” she hollered, biting her lip in anticipation as she brandished her wand threateningly in front of her and baby Tom.

An elfish pop sounded from behind her, revealing a trembling creature positioned in a bow. Its voice shook in fear as it spoke, “Maitresse Alarie. Maisy is a house elf for the Noble House of Alarie,”

“A house elf?” Hermione questioned as she expanded her accepted familial magic till it brushed against the elf. The foreign energy inside her mingled and thrummed happily with the creature – a positive sign of previous bonding.

Maisy nodded, “Oui, Maitresse. Maisy’s family be the house elves of Alarie.”

“How many are in your family,”

“Cinq Maitresse,”

Hermione nodded, “Although cinq house elves may be too many for us, you can stay if you’d like or I can free you,”

“No, no, no!” the elf declined with a frantic shake of her head, “The elfs of Grazie like to serve Alarie. Me’s be thinking yous is a nice maitresse,”

The witch smiled and shrugged in defeat, “I am Hermione, and this-” she gestured to the small bundle of blankets in her arms, “-is Tom Riddle,”

“Maitresse adopt Maitre Tom?” Maisy asked curiously, gaining a little courage from the pleasant introduction and acceptance.

“Yes, clever elf,” she commended, “Could you do me a favour, Maisy?”

“Anything Maitresse,” the elf bounced giddily, eager to complete her first task.

“Could you please buy some more baby formula and nappies? I’m afraid I forgot to purchase them on my previous trip,” Hermione placed a small pouch of galleons into the elf’s dainty hands, “You can have a look in my shopping to see if there are any other groceries you want that aren’t there.”

“Yes Maitresse. Maisy will get baby stuffs and have dinner served by nine thirty.”

“Oh, there’s no need for dinner-” Hermione began as she only needed to feed herself and truthfully she wasn’t hungry after having lunch with Charlus and Septimus.

“Maisy shall return with Maitre Tom’s stuffs,” the elf ignored her protests and apparated away with a crack.

Hermione scoffed, “Bloody elf didn’t even listen to me!” Returning her attention to the little boy squirming as he began to wake up on her shoulder, the witch cooed as he gurgled, “Lets explore the Alarie Estate while your bottle is made, shall we?”

Flicking her wand, Hermione allowed her magic to begin the process of making a bottle of formula as she left with Tom to open the doors that hadn’t been used in what she estimated to be decades. The dust that had settled on the uncovered furniture was cleaned and fire torches were lit with a flick of her wand. The twosome managed to find their way to the dining room in time after claiming the master bedroom for themselves to see Maisy setting out a small variety of French dishes served on silver.

Hermione had decided to spoil herself lightly with the Alarie inheritance as a kind of reward for surviving as long as she had in the midst of war being dubbed as Undesirable #1. It wasn’t as though the gold would be missed from the abundance in the vault anyway.

“This looks wonderful, Maisy! Please do make sure you take some for yourself and your family,” Hermione smiled kindly, waving her wand to summon a smaller plate for the little elf who had taken to looking at her mistress with wide eyes.

“Maitresse wishes Maisy to eat at the table? As an equal?” the elf’s pitch rose with every word.

“Why of course,” Hermione confirmed with a little frown, “Did your previous masters not do so?”

The little elf’s countenance scrunched in disdain before shaking her head minutely. Recognising the expression, Hermione hastily commanded: “I forbid you and your family from punishing yourselves.”

Dead or alive, an elf remained loyal to its masters until freed. Kreature was enough evidence of that.

The elf nodded obediently and shakily explained that she would introduce the rest of her family tomorrow once they had tidied the rubble of what had been the Alarie ancestral home in France. As the creature began eating enough to fill her body, Hermione tested the bottle of milk on her inner wrist like she had seen her mother do once when they were babysitting their neighbour’s child. Once she was content that it was cool enough for Tom to drink, the witch cradled him and gently pried the teat of the bottle between his lips.

Tom greedily swallowed half of what was given and was close to falling into a deep slumber. Hermione ensured to burp him, wandlessly removing the milk that had spilled onto the back of her clothes with a snap of her fingers.

“Maisy!” she whispered, “Block the floo connections and raise anti apparition wards. If you know of any elfish wards that disable unaccepted wizards and elves please raise those too,”

“Yes Maitresse,”

Hermione could feel the anti-apparation wards rising, her magic lingering close to her and Tom until the process was complete and she was accepted. Satisfied with their safety, the witch left for the chambers she had claimed on the first floor. It was the closest room she could find that resembled her old dormitory in Gryffindor Tower. The rich burgundy walls were lit up by the bright blaze of the fire burning in the hearth; a king-sized bed residing in the middle of the wooden-floored room invited her with promises of comfort far beyond than her four-poster in Hogwarts and the sleeping bags she had slept in when she was on the run.

Hermione pulled the covers over herself and little Tom, her mind refusing to grant her the blissful peace of sleep. She bit her lower lip harshly as she felt it tremble involuntarily. A lump formed in the back of her throat as hot tears stung her moistened eyes.

Releasing a shaky breath, Hermione swallowed uncomfortably as she absently rubbed Tom’s back. The reality of her predicament finally dawned on her as she lay in the silence of her new home. Tucking her frizzing hair into a messy pile atop of her head, the witch allowed the painful tears to fall in the suffocating privacy.

No matter how much she loathed Lord Voldemort and the destructive darkness that forced little Tom Riddle to succumb to the genetic defect inside him, she could not hate – couldn’t even dislike – the innocent child curled up on her chest. The Tom Riddle she knew of in her nightmares would be different to the Tom Riddle she would raise.

That was a promise she made to the future wizarding world, to Tom and to herself.


	4. Chapter 4

24th December 1929

“Tom Marvolo Riddle, if you do not put that book back on the shelf right now…” Hermione trailed the end of her threat as she glowered at the mischievous boy whose third birthday party was in the works.

Said toddler merely grinned at his adoptive mother and continued to flapping the thin tome by its fraying spine as his magic stabilised him mid-air by the top of the shelf where had managed to wrap his grubby little fingers around and tear the book away from its resting place.

“Tom,” Hermione warned for the umpteenth time before she huffed and muttered, “Accio,”

The toddler frowned as the witch’s magic pried the bundle of parchment out of his grasp, eliciting a spoiled cry as he made hands for it. “Mama!” he wailed as his magic gave way, causing him to collide with a swiftly placed bean bag.

Hermione shot him a saccharine smile dosed in sarcasm before enveloping him in her arms and placing her on his hip. Tom grimaced, attempting to hide behind her shoulder as he considered the punishments he could possibly face for his cheek.

He’d either be humiliated and put on the naughty carpet that sat in a dimly lit, unused drawing room or he would not be permitted dessert for the next week.

However, it seemed as though luck was on his side as the dark haired boy found himself cocooned in a blanket on her lap with his mother holding a book that he had not seen anywhere in their family library. Which meant it was from her personal stash that she kept guarded under lock and key in her room.

“Incendio,” Tom heard Hermione mutter with her wand trained on the fireplace that now had a roaring blaze in it.

The book within the witch’s grasp was a muggle book she had bought within her recent venture into the muggle world with Tom. It was a novella she had analysed as part of her high school examination by the Victorian muggle Charles Dickens. A Christmas Carol it was named and within the depths of Hermione’s subconscious, she felt the literature seemed a fitting choice what with the heavy barrage of snowflakes camouflaging the impurities of the exterior of their land due to a snow storm that had just passed. The night fell on Christmas Eve and as tradition from her forgotten childhood, Hermione was curled up beside a warming fire with a mug of steaming hot chocolate hovering beside her and Tom. The little boy did not seem to like the festive beverage no matter what cocoa was used, thus Hermione decided that should he want some, they could share.

In the future, Hermione’s parents would sit with her in the living room and watch classic Christmas movies the night before and then re-watch their favourites on the day itself. However, due to her having jumped back seven and a half decades the movies she had grown accustomed to watching were not due to be released for another ten to twenty years. Therefore, within the extended capabilities of her magic, the witch used the new knowledge she had gained after absorbing the spells from the Alarie library like a sponge to recreate a cinematic view through splitting Lumos orbs and rearranging them into any picture she fancied.

With every paragraph Hermione read, a translucent form of bright silver sparkled morphed and mingled with each other to recreate certain scenes she could recall vividly from her memory of the movies. It was quite similar in appearance to a corporeal patronus, Hermione supposed, except it lacked its dementor warding abilities and did not require happy memories to conjure it.

Tom gasped when he saw the form that her magic had taken when mimicking the images she had seen of the Ghost of Christmas Present. He swore he could almost hear his jolly laughter echoing around the corridors of his house in the very moment and it made something within him feel warm. Hermione giggled at his confounded expression and ran her fingers through his dark locks, smiling in adoration at him when he tilted his head to look up at her. “Enjoying the show?” she whispered, receiving a nod in the affirmative.

If someone had told her in 2001 that she would come to care for a child that had grown up to murder those she was like and those she cared about, Hermione would have gladly deposited them on the foot of St Mungo’s doorstep and informed them that they needed to be placed in the psych ward. Now however? She couldn’t help but agree that travelling backwards – how ever accidental – had been the best thing that had happened to her in her twenty-five years of living.

“There’s only a week till your birthday, Tommy,” she placed a gentle kiss on his forehead, “Have you decided what colours you want to wear?”

The boy let his head rest on her chest, all thoughts of punishment forgotten as memories of the little magical show formed. Yawning, he said, “Green. Silver and green mama,”

Hermione stifled a chuckle. Slytherin through and through despite her Gryffindorish presence with all shades of burgundies and golds.

Tom’s hands fisted her winter night robe as she rocked them both gently whilst taking a sip from her mug, “Braxy said…” another yawn, “Said he’s going to give me his albino peacock.”

Hermione choked on her hot chocolate, “Did he now?” she asked, her eyes twinkling in amusement, “And what would be better than an albino peacock, little raindrop?”

“Anything mama gets me is better than a peacock,” Tom said, his voice muffled by the thick material of her robe. “And blackberries.”

The witch grinned as she stood up, the dark green eyed toddler clutching onto her shoulders as she walked to their room. “Would baking blackberry cake beat the Malfoys’ presents?”

Tom released an incoherent mumbling of noise as his eyes slid closed; though, as his mother, Hermione understood what he had intended to say.

“Definitely,”

**ooOoo**

This year, Hermione had dreaded the morning of Christmas for now Tom was at the age of understanding that it was a special occasion. She remembered how she used to run up to her parents’ bedroom and bounce on their occupied bed relentlessly while nattering on about waking up so they could finally rip open the presents she had been wishing for all year.

To her surprise, it did not happen.

Instead of her adoptive son being the one to wake her, it had been Daisy – another family house elf that was now under her claim – shaking her awake to teach her how to bake gingerbread men and other festive muggle treats in early preparation for Tom’s birthday. Tom on the other hand hadn’t seemed to have bothered with the idea of waking up until noon had passed, though she supposed it was partially her fault for keeping him awake an hour past his bed time with the magic show.

“Tom,” Hermione shook her son with urgency, “Tom, it’s lunchtime,”

“Mamamghdlaf”

“Huh?”

“Layerrrr,”

Hermione scowled and took the pillow from under his head and lightly whacked his feet with it, “Tom wake up you’ve slept for nearly sixteen hours,”

“So?”

“Honestly child, when I was your age I was pestering my parents to wake up not the other way around,” the witch huffed before she pulled her wand and released a stream of cold water onto his cheek.

“Hey! Mama!” Tom whined as he wiped his face dry with his quilt and scooted away from her wand.

“Hello to you too, Tom,” Hermione said as she began straightening the bed, “Go to the bathroom, Maisy will be there to give you a bath,”

Grumbling, the small boy toddled off to the lavish bathroom across the corridor leaving a slightly peeved yet amused curly haired time traveller. With a sigh, said witch ensured that both her and his rooms were cleaned and proper before exiting to the small owlry in order to send her gifts for the Malfoys, Potters and Blacks. Upon her arrival into the past, both Dorea Black (soon to be Potter) had been occupied prominent roles in aiding Hermione in her adaptations in becoming accustomed to the historical wizarding world. They had introduced herself and Tom to the Malfoys and the Blacks respectively, thus forming friendship bonds between the adopted Riddle, Abraxas Malfoy and Orion Black at the tender age of one.

“A trio of mischief,” Clotilda (Malfoy’s mother) would comment fondly.

Abraxas was a charming blonde boy with his boyish smile and contagious laughter. His father (Armand) however was a person to detest if the constant sneers and the looks of sheer disgust sent in her direction was anything to go by. His arrogant treatment was worse than what she had endured from his future great grandson, Draco Malfoy, with the exception of the derogatory racist term - mudblood.

His wife, on the other hand, had become fast friends with the supposed French witch. She had invited Hermione to the annual Malfoy Yuletide/New Year Gala the year prior, however the brunette witch had declined due to Tom’s inability to control his magic which had once caused trouble for her when he was among a crowd he didn’t particularly like.

Tom didn’t enjoy the presence of many people, really.

This year though, Hermione had agreed to attend in favour of it being on Tom’s birthday. The witch had a subtle suspicion that Clotilda had done this purposefully for reasons currently unknown to her but she intended to find out by the end of that night when it came.

For now, she focussed on readying Tom after dismissing Maisy. The witch pampered the toddler as he splashed in the warm water. Placing a kiss on the soaked boy’s cheek who smiled bashfully with a faint blush tinting his usual alabaster skin. To reduce his embarrassment – though she was quite uncertain as to why he was so – Hermione conjured an animated snake using the loitering bubbles, flicking her wand in command for it to slither around the Slytherin heir. Tom watched the display of magic in awe, his onyx eyes taking on a greener hue as he attempted to catch the soap in his small hands with a gleeful smile.

A small smile of her own flickered across Hermione’s lips as she mentally checked off some kind of mental illness that could have caused Tom Riddle in her past to lose his connection to emotions. The boy had simply grown estranged from genuine love; he wasn’t a sociopath as far as she could tell at this age though that could shift and change as he grew into himself. The scene also reminded the witch how enthralled she had felt when spectating even the minutest amount of magic once she was introduced. Despite having fought in a war and many battles that had relied heavily on spells and power; innocent displays of magic such as this still continued to cause her heart to flutter in awe of the raw magic that coursed through her veins.

Drying Tom with a few spells – leaving his hair alone upon cajoled insistence – Hermione dressed the toddler in fitted emerald green robes with a muggle santa hat for completion before sending him down to their favoured drawing room which they had consequently named the Clover Room despite the colour scheme consisting of a more olive-toned palette. Hermione took the time to throw on a thick Christmassy dress robe that Charlus had bought her during their shopping trip after her visit to Gringotts two years ago. It had been lying in her cupboard since as with caring for a notorious child that liked to dirty anything he saw with his spittle, the witch found little reason to tarnish a beautiful dress.

Satisfied with her appearance, Hermione entered the Clover Room and observed Blase (the third and one of two male members of the House Elves she had taken in) adding on the finishing elfish touches to the Alarie Christmas tree that was decorated haphazardly with moving photographs of Tom, herself and individual photos of each member of the Grazie elves.

“Blase,” the elf paused, “Come join us with the rest of Grazie. We are about to open presents,” Hermione invited with a friendly smile. A snap of her fingers led the male house elves that had appeared donned in shrunken Christmas jumpers and the female ones dolled in a warm, red dress with specialised black flats and trainers respectively to fit their little elfish feet.

It hadn’t been the first time Hermione ha gifted the elves clothing. In fact, within the first week of their arrival, she had offered them clothes in order for them to reconsider and gain freedom but they had promptly denied claiming that they would hate to discontinue serving the Ancient and Noble House of Alarie no matter what artefacts Hermione presented with.

_“Well… if you choose to stay then you will have to accept my gifts at the very least,” turning her nose up Hermione sniffed as she turned a deaf ear to their feeble protests, “It will not do for elves working for high class dressed in the bare minimum,”_

“Oui Maitresse,” the elves bowed and curtsied before waddling off to seat themselves on the plush carpet around Tom who was eagerly reaching out for a small present wrapped in shiny, emerald wrapping paper.

Hermione rolled her eyes before letting out a light laugh, “Always going to have an eye for sparkles, aren’t you my sweet?”

Snatching the present away, the witch told him to wait as she settled him into her lap, gesturing for Maisy to open her presents first.

Hermione on behalf of herself and Tom had gifted the elf she had met first with a collecting box made of leather and her name carved in gold leaf. She had noticed Maisy’s penchant for swiping flowers that weren’t rotten but didn’t abide by all of the points in the checklists that a magical garden apparently had and keeping them stored in the corner of the small room Hermione had gifted each elf one the year prior.

Daisy received a set of pots and pans and a new muggle cookbook that contained recipes for all kinds of sweet and savoury desserts. The elf was the one who primarily dealt with the culinary aspect.

Blase had been gifted a new set of dusters and a charmed mint plant that did not require care. Tom had been the one to choose the present as he had felt bad for destroying the elf’s old jasmine plant.

Dase was given the latest muggle lawn mower that had been magically modified to rely on elf magic than petrol as it would make the process of tidying the numerous gardens easier as the elf could focus on another part that needed doing as the contraption took care of the grass.

Finally, Tom’s present. The toddler tore through the packaging carefully as though he was afraid that by rushing through it would destroy the present inside.

“Mama?”

“Yes dear?”

“What this?”

Hermione smiled softly, taking the platinum object that had also caught the eyes of the elves out of his small hands. Turning his palm to face the ceiling, the witch clasped the ends of the bland appearing bracelet together. As the two ends connected, the piece of jewellery shifted and hissed forming the structure of a snake. The charmed platinum blinked revealing two emerald-cut eyes before returning to its motionless state, “That is my gift to you, Tom,”

“Wow Mama!” he gasped as he twisted his wrist around, “Is that it?”

Hermione shot him a pointed look before explaining, “That bracelet is charmed with spells that will protect you from most dangers as long as you wear it. So what will you do?”

“Always wear it,” he replied, nodding his head obediently as he gazed at the bracelet with newly found awe.

Tearing through more presents, Tom eventually reached his last one that was a black box tied in silver ribbon. Upon reading the name, Tom shook the box closely by his ear. “Mama, will a peacock fit in this?” he asked with such innocence that Hermione couldn’t help but laugh.


	5. Chapter 5

As nightfall draped its black velvet cloak over the county of Wiltshire, Hermione and Tom found themselves patiently waiting in an archaic, French foyer on the date of a certain Slytherin heir’s third birthday. Adorned in a beautiful modest silver dress, Hermione felt comfortable in the material that had charged the Alarie Vaults seventy-five galleons. Small diamonds spiralled up the bodice in an intricate design, a similar pattern duplicated on the edges of the skirt and cape ends that trailed regally behind her. Tamed chestnut curls (achieved after snooping around the extensive Alarie Library with a translating spell) were pinned in a half-up-half-down hairdo secured with a diamond floral hairclip. Her makeup was light, highlighting and emphasising her natural bone structure due to her inexperience with it despite the amount of time she now found in her hands. Dorea always complimented that she didn’t require it, for her radiant natural beauty would only be blocked by the likes of the underdeveloped cosmetics.

It had been a while since Hermione had had the opportunity to doll herself for an occasion. She realised during the time spent dressing Tom in the male counterpart to her dress that the last proper party she had attended had been Bill Weasley and Fleur Delacour’s wedding which had been ambushed by a Death Eater raid.

“Tom! Lady Alawy!” a jovial, energetic boy shrieked in delight as he ran to the entrance of his family manor.

“Manners Abraxas!” the Malfoy matriarch scolded with a glare as she elegantly appeared behind the excited blonde. As though he were a soldier, the two-year-old straightened his posture to the best of his ability, brushed off illusory dust from his dark dress robes and took Hermione’s warm hand into his dainty toddler ones. Placing a sloppy kiss onto her knuckles (a gesture Hermione knew would be perfected over time), Abraxas greeted her and Tom with a bow as every pureblood child had been groom to do.

The twenty-five years old woman curtsied politely as societal customs required and ruffled the Malfoy heir’s trademark white-blonde hair. Tom shook his close friend’s hand as firmly as he could before allowing himself to be dragged to the children’s area of the grandly decorated ballroom with a smile thrown in his mother’s direction over his shoulder.

Waving lightly, Hermione returned her attention to the woman with light brown locks and platinum blonde tips, “I must say, Clotilda, you really have outdone yourself this year,”

“Oh please, Hermione,” the blonde pulled her into a warm embrace given the solitude of the room, “It’s Tom’s birthday!”

Hermione hummed, “I was planning on sending invites to a gala of my own for Tom the night I received yours,”

Clotilda grinned, “I know,”

“How?”

“Abraxas saw the drafts apparently and said we should do a surprise party for him,”

“Surprise?” Hermione raised a quizzical eyebrow.

Clotilda shrugged lightly, “Slightly uncouth in our terms; however, we figured that if we gave your invitations late he’d be none the wiser,”

Hermione withheld a snort, “You underestimate Tom’s ability to solve things, Clotilda. He asked me about it as soon as we got the invite,”

The blonde woman sighed, “Can never get anything past that boy of yours. Quite observant like you,”

The curly haired witch bit her cheek to prevent her from spewing how she had gained her sharp observation skills. The mother and son were completely unalike – where Hermione had had to develop traits, Tom had it naturally. “I guess,” she said dismissively.

“Speaking of your Tom,” Clotilda continued, “Word around is that both the Blacks and Rosiers are eager to set up betrothal contracts for their daughters with Tom,”

“Which Black?”

“Considering accepting?”

“No,” Hermione shook her head, “I won’t be arranging any sort of contracts for Tom,”

Clotilda frowned, “Why not,”

Hermione had half forgotten that betrothals were far more common than they had been in her original time and it was almost expected for her – as an apparent pureblood raising a son – to secure at least a temporary one in order to ensure the continuation of her family line especially due to her being without a husband or a spare.

The blonde witch frowned, her eyes taking on a longing sheen, “You know, if my Abraxas was a girl I would have been pestering you until you gave in and signed one,”

“Still no luck?”

The Malfoy matriarch shook her head and absently brushed a manicured hand over her flat stomach. To an onlooker it would seem as though she was smoothing wrinkles out of her exquisite, emerald gown but Hermione recognised the concealed forlorn expression her own mother had adorned once.

Placing her hand over Clotilda’s the witch stopped her from rubbing anymore, “Have you asked Lord Malfoy to be tested for fertility?”

Clotilda grimaced and chuckled forcefully, “Men and their pride…” she trailed, leaving the unspoken answer in mid air.

“What about adoption?”

“I asked Armand but he-“ her voice cracked, “He told to stop deaming for such ‘futile mirages’. I don’t even know what that means!”

“It basically means useless dreams,”

Clotilda huffed in frustration, “I knew it didn’t mean anything good,”

The brunette remained quiet momentarily as she contemplated the wiseness of hinting towards a secret she had discovered through eavesdropping on Draco Malfoy. “Have you considered if the theme of one male heir to Malfoy has something to do with the family history?”

Clotilda bit her lip, “No, I haven’t,” she admitted.

Hermione smiled softly, “It appears that you have a new project awaiting you, Clotilda. But first lets enjoy this luxe ball you have set up.”

**ooOoo**

“Thank you, Brax,” Tom said quietly as they entered the Malfoy heir’s chambers as the population of guests began to dwindle. Hermione had reminded him to express his gratitude to the boy before home-time and the newly three-year-old did not wish to earn his mother’s ire on his birthday.

She could be quite scary when she wanted to be, even though she had never thrown a curse nor raised a harsh hand on him.

“Did you like your christmas present?” Abraxas asked, grey eyes wide and mischievous as a budding slytherin smirk began to tug on his youthful lips.

Tom scowled, “That butterfly cracker wasn’t funny! You know I don’t like them!”

“And you know that I hate worms!” the platinum blonde retorted with equal vigour.

“It was an addition to your potions set!”

Abraxas cackled, ignoring the dark haired boy’s explanation, “I wish I saw your face when they sparkle cloud blew up,”

“It smelled rancid.” Tom deadpanned as they turned a corner away from Abraxas’ room.

“What?”

“I said-”

“What does _ranseed_ mean?”

“It’s rancid. It means bad or foul,”

“Ohhh,” Abraxas nodded with an accomplished grin, “Got it.” A few beats of silence passed, “How do you know what ranseed means?”

“Ma-Mum and I read before going to bed,” Tom hastily corrected himself with a ghost of a smile.

“Still need bedtime stories to go to sleep, Tommy?” the younger boy teased, receiving a well-earned shove when he stuck his tongue out. His laughter quietened as the duo reached the ancient Malfoy Library, “I wish Mother would read to me sometimes.”

Even at the young age of three, Tom could understand when remaining silent was better than attempting to fill the quietness with futile talk. He observed how his friend’s posture deflated and the faint blue hue present in his irides faded into a sullen silver.

“Mother does try-” Abraxas cut himself off as he was interrupted by the sounds of his drunken father’s heavy footsteps echoing further down the corridor. They blonde gulped, his small frame tensing before he pushed tom through the oak doors forcefully. “Sorry,” he whispered as he left the door cracked open in order to see when the intimidating man had passed, “Father doesn’t like guests wandering around the private wings,”

Tom dismissed it with a little wave of his hand as he noticed his friend’s discomfort. “Ask Lady Malfoy if you can stay at the Estate tonight, I’m sure Mum won’t mind,”

“Are you sure?” the boy looked at him with hopeful eyes. He definitely did not want to stay home despite its vast size.

“Yeah! She really likes you!”

Abraxas grinned before he grabbed Tom’s wrists and dragged him deeper within the detached room of powerful tomes and scrolls.

**ooOoo**

Midnight was approaching and Hermione was eager to tear the dress off of her body and curl up into ball within her warm sheets. As soon as the opportunity arose, the witch dismissed herself from the dawdling society wives who were discussing some charity work they were doing, all clearly knowledgeable of the fact that she did not participate in such events.

It wasn’t as though their intentions were pure. They dressed in their most expensive robes smiling perfectly for the cameras as they made a show of their large donations.

That reminded her that she needed a job.

Clotilda escorted her to the family library where they found their sons sleeping soundly beside a roaring fire with an elf clearing the books they had used, many of which were picture books of magical creatures. One leather cover in particular had caught her eye. Resting in the middle of the short stack was a thin book named _A Serpents Guide_.

Hermione had caught Tom hissing and emitting strange sounds in parseltongue as he slept and she doubted he knew of her acknowledgement. In the original timeline, Tom Marvolo Riddle hadn’t come to know of his inherited ability until the age of six wherein he used the genetic power to terrorise two orphans who had apparently earned his young, vengeful fury. Perhaps the time in revealing the true nature of his birth was arriving sooner than she expected and if she was being candor, Hermione was dreading it.

Ruffling his mess of dark curls, the witch lifted him out of the armchair he had curled up in and placed a gentle kiss on his temple. The boy groaned tiredly, rubbing his eyes as his pupils adjusted to the dim brightness of the room. “Mum?” he mumbled.

“Just me darling,” she soothed as she situated his lethargic frame comfortably and securely on her hip in preparation for their floo travel home.

“Can Brax stay with us?”

“Has he asked his parents yet?” Hermione countered as she pressed a kiss to his shoulder.

“Oh, please take him,” Clotilda placed a shaky hand on her sleeping son’s cheek, “Armand isn’t.. pleasant to be around whilst inebriated,”

Hermione flashed the Malfoy matriarch a concerned look as she observed the subtle – almost unnoticeable – tremble in the woman’s form, “He doesn’t…” she allowed the gruesome details of her query hang silently in the air despite already knowing of the answers through another eavesdropping fiasco.

Armand Malfoy had been the one to raise his grandson after forcefully removing Lucius from Abraxas’ care. Where Abraxas was gentle yet stern, Armand was domineering and abusive and Hermione was not certain of the parenting style Lucius had used when raising Draco.

Another mishap she could fix.

Clotilda sighed, “You are a very lucky witch to have had such a loving husband, Hermione,” was all she said.

Hermione frowned, “You can come too-”

“No, no,” Clotilda interrupted, her voice pitched and anxious, “He can’t be left alone. He won’t hurt me do not worry, it is Abraxas I fear for,”

Hermione bit her lip, fiery rage building up towards the male Malfoy, “Alright,” she conceded, “Floo call me before you come so I can shift the wards,”

Clotilda smiled and pulled the woman into a tight hug before she released her only son into Hermione’s care, “Thank you, Lady Alarie.”

Hermione called for Maisy and asked her to place the sleeping blonde into the guest room opposite Tom’s room before she stepped into the fire grate with a handful of floo powder. Tossing the dust down she called for Alarie Estate.

As green flames licked the material of her dress, the brunette witch called for Lady Malfoy, “Clotilda? Protego is a nice spell.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has been edited. I have removed a scene with Tom (which will be placed somewhere else at a later date with the necessary corrections) and replaced it with a small scene with Abraxas.
> 
> Enjoy!

Despite having had remained awake long past her accustomed bed time (which had been unknowingly fixed by the toddler she had claimed as her own) Hermione still managed to find herself half awake and dressed by the crack of dawn, ready to complete the matriarchal duties she had been informed of by the Grazie Elves. Cursing her body clock for leaving her to run on a measly four hours long sleep, the curly haired witch set about cooking breakfast in the kitchen for the two children she was housing.

Clotilda would be dropping by in some hours to collect her son and Hermione hoped that Armand was too hungover from the amount of alcohol he had consumed the night prior to admonish sweet Abraxas for his escape.

That Malfoy was a menace, honestly, no wonder Lucius came out as bad as he was.

Speaking of the platinum-blonde peacock-obsessed family, Hermione was startled out of her wits when a trembling elf – whom she recognised as Dase – apparated behind her and spoke faster than her sluggish morning brain could comprehend.

"Slowly, Dase. Deep breaths,"

The elf did as instructed before hurtling himself into his frenzied speech once more, "Master Abrax be screaming, Mistress,"

Alarmed, Hermione flipped the omelette in the pan and turned the stove off, deciding that the oil was hot enough for the egg to cook to completion without extra heat. Hastily washing her hands, the witch ran up the lengthy stairs and gently pried the door to the blonde wizard's room open. "Abraxas?" she called quietly only to be greeted with a frightened whimper, "Abraxas dear, what's wrong?"

Standing beside his bed, Hermione slowly untangled the quilt that had weaved its way around the crying boy and set it properly in case he felt the need to sleep again. "Abraxas," she cooed upon noticing the sad, fat tears rolling down flushed cheeks. Instinctively, Hermione was about to pull the boy into her lap as she did on the rare occasions Tom cried before her brain forced her to pause and think. The blonde boy wouldn't be as comfortable with her touch as Tom was. Instead, she placed a comforting hand on the toddler's shaking shoulder, "Darling, you will have to tell me in order for me to help you,"

At her words the boy began to frantically shake his head, mumbles of "Malfoys don't cry. Malfoys don't cry!" falling from sobbing lips as tried to rock himself back to serenity.

The witch scoffed as her maternal instincts overruled her rational thought. Pulling the blonde boy into a hug, Hermione soothingly ran her fingers through his hair and rubbed his back as his sobs died out. "Better?"

"F-Father w-w-will-" Abraxas hiccupped into the witch's chest, "Will-"

"To hell with your father!" was what Hermione wanted to snarl yet she had to maintain her composure and opted to placate, "Your father will do nothing. If he does, you come straight to me and I'll hex him across the globe!"

The trembling blonde nodded and fisted his small hands tighter around Hermione's soft dress as his whimpers slowly faded into occasional sniffles.

"Do you think you can sleep again, dove? Or would you like to help me cook breakfast?" Hermione asked after minutes of silence had passed only to find Abraxas sleeping soundlessly in her arms. Tutting in pity, the witch pressed a kiss to the pale boy's forehead and tucked him back into the bed he had previously tangled himself in. Waving her wand, she cast a charm that would notify her once he woke before closing the door quietly behind her.

**ooOoo**

Hours passed and the clock was nearing eight. The elves had orders that should they not waken within fifteen minutes they were permitted to wake the boys up using whatever child friendly methods they'd like. Unfortunately for them (as they had been particularly eager to enact revenge due to the boys' latest prank on them), the toddlers had arrived dressed and hungry by 8.15 am. On the dot. In that moment, Hermione braced herself for the tantrums they could pull upon telling them that their breakfast would be a small stack of pancakes each.

It seemed as though luck was on her side for they merely grumbled before climbing onto their chairs and demanding for their food. Before doing so, however, Abraxas made to take her hand and repeat his gesture from the night prior by placing another sloppy kiss to her knuckles. An image of Draco Malfoy's face twisted in both shock and disgust was formed by her imagination, forcing Hermione to suppress a giggle as she imagined that to be his reaction if he ever found out that his very own grandfather had treated a mudblood with such respect. Holding the side of his face, the witch brushed a thumb over his alabaster cheeks and watched with mirth as they flushed with a pale pink and a shy smile pulled his youthful lips.

Hermione felt elated at the idea of Abraxas having an innocent little crush on her. It was adorable.

"Patience, little ones," Hermione hummed as she flipped the last one to cook before setting their plates down in front of them. "If there's anything you want just ask Maisy,"

"Mama," Tom pouted with his arm crossed.

"Mhm?"

"Mama!" he whined.

"Tom, behave. We have a guest here,"

"But Mama!"

Hermione lifted him off of his seat and settled him on her hip. Kissing him on his cheek, his nose, his forehead and on his other cheek she set him down and ruffled his hair, "Is that what you wanted darling?"

Tom smiled sheepishly and nodded. "Thank you, Mama,"

The witch laughed as she pinched their cheeks lightly, informing them to play in the Clover Room once they had finished and cleaned up. Leaving the two alone, it wasn't long before Abraxas finally mustered the courage to ask: "What's this?" as he twirled a cut piece on his fork.

"It's a pancake," Tom answered as he mimicked the blonde's actions before placing it into his mouth.

"A what-cake?"

"A pancake."

Comically lifting his stack of food, Abraxas commented, "Where's the pan?"

"It was cooked in a pan. You can't eat a pan, Brax,"

Molten silver eyes brightened with an idea that Tom presumed he would hate, "Why not make an _eatable_ pan?" Abraxas exclaimed with childish excitement.

"Edible, not eatable," Tom said, ever the serious one, "You could make a cake the shape of a pan and decorate it as one," he suggested.

"Well duh," Abraxas rolled his eyes, "But what about an eat- _edible_ pan that could still be used to cook?"

"Eating it would mean you have to buy another," Tom smartly pointed out, his hand reaching for his glass of water.

The blonde boy evidently ignored him as he gasped at the revelation of another apparent brilliant idea, "The pan could be charmed to try and eat you!" he squeaked excitedly.

Tom choked and shot his friend an incredulous look.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cafuné - the act of running your fingers through somebody’s hair


	7. Chapter 7 u

_Dear Headmaster Dippet,_

_I have noticed your search for a professor to fill in the post of Defence Against the Dark Arts. I would like to inform you of my interest in occupying the role. Disclosed below are my NEWT results from when I attended Beauxbatons Academy of Magic. I truly hope you accept my admission._

_Awaiting your reply,_

_Lady Hermione Alarie of the Ancient and Noble House of Alarie_

_\-------------------------------------------------------------_

_Dear Mademoiselle Alarie,_

_After running a background check and receiving several references from the Board of Governors, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry would love to have you, Hermione Alarie, as an addition to our exceptional group of staff._

_You will assume your post as Defence Against the Dark Arts Professor on the 1st of September 1937. Professors are permitted to reside within the grounds up to ten days prior to student arrival and ten days after student departure. As a newcomer, you are expected to arrive on the 31st of August 1937 in order to have your magical aura keyed to the wards of the grounds as well as having you sorted by the Sorting Hat. As a previous member of Ombrelune, I'm quite certain that you will be sorted into Slytherin given the traits required are particularly similar._

_Awaiting the end of August,_

_Headmaster Armando Dippet of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry._

_P.S: I feel I must commend you on your achievement of eleven NEWT equivalents, all Outstandings! That level hasn't been reached in almost a century since our very own Deputy Headmaster!_

_\-------------------------------------------------------------_ _  
_

_Dear Headmaster Dippet,_

_Thank you! I am most honoured to receive the post as Defence Against the Dark Arts professor. Although, concerning your previous letter, I would like to establish that I currently do not wish to reside in the castle during the school term. I have my child, Tom Riddle, to look after as he is quite young and cannot be separated from him for months at a time. If it is possible, is it acceptable for me to return to the grounds during the mornings and leave after work hours?_

_Tom will soon be able to attend a magical school, he has been displaying quite a fair bit of accidental magic. If I am still a member of staff by the time he attends, I may consider residing in the castle. Only if I am still there then._

_Thank you again,_

_Hermione Alarie of the Ancient and Noble House of Alarie_

_\-------------------------------------------------------------_

"Tom!" Hermione called for her nine years old son from the top of the staircase.

The sound of childish footsteps echoed around the corridor as the dark haired, green eyed boy halted at the foot of the staircase. Looking up at her, he smiled, "Yes, Mum?"

Eyeing his dirty apparel, she ordered him to clean himself and to meet her in her room in half an hour. The prodigal boy was intelligent to a fault; at the tender age of one he began speaking whole sentences without fault, though with a few missing words due to his limited vocabulary. The freakiest thing, Hermione had realised was that he had never pronounced a word incorrectly; when the young boy was unsure, he would point at the word and ask for its definition and etymology or he would pay attention to conversations and pick up details from there.

Settling herself on her bed, Hermione brushed a healthy curl away from her face, tucking it behind her ear as she held the affirmative letter stating that her adopted son would now be tutored and cared for by the Malfoys until she returned from work. It was unnerving, the idea of leaving her child alone away from her with no means of fast contact in case something detrimental occurred. 

Three short knocks and a freshly bathed nine year old was standing in front of her with curious eyes. Sometimes, Hermione truly forgot that she had merely adopted the boy and had considered the baby dark lord as her child. Her ingenious, prodigal son. 

She hoisted him off of the floor and tucked him into her lap. Kissing his forehead she wandlessly cast a minor drying charm in order to remove the dampness from his neatly parted hair. Tom shivered under the heat, usually preferring for his hair to dry naturally without the use of magic.

Or maybe he was just lazy, who knows.

"Tom, do you remember when I told you that I would be applying to get a job at Hogwarts?" she asked gently in a vain attempt to jog his memory so he wouldn't initiate a tantrum like he had when she first mentioned her intentions. That day many glass vases and beautiful flowers shattered and wilted under the fury of his uncontrolled burst of magic.

Tom's face remained artfully blank. "Yes..."

Hermione allowed a small smile to encompass her lips, "I got the job."

"You did?"

"Are you not happy?"

Tom's face twitched, as though he was restraining the urge to pout, before he finally conceded by nodding.

"Tom..." Hermione raised an eyebrow, a warning lilt to her tone.

"Nothing." he said gruffly, averting his gaze from hers in favour of focussing on a particle of dust making its way to the wooden floor in the setting sunlight.

Hermione sighed and clasped her warm, larger hands around his smaller, not-spidery ones. "Tell me, sweet raindrop," she murmured into his hair.

A sniff and a quick jerk of his body prompted the witch into cradling the boy - her boy - close to her. Tom didn't cry, normally that is. Rather than the warm tears that would cascade down dampened cheeks, his skin would remain alabaster and dry, only his eyes would moisten slightly. It seemed as though Tom's defence against emotions of sadness was to transfer the energy used to cry into ferocious, untameable anger. 

"There's nothing to be worried about, dove, I haven't forgotten about you." she cooed quietly as his breathing slowed, "I arranged with the headmaster so I could return home by nightfall every night for you."

"Promise?" he mumbled after learning that he would be spending the most part of his day with Abraxas for tutoring. The idea appalled him, given the different speeds at which they learnt. By the time Abraxas would finish his first sentence, Tom would be completing his final word. "Why can't you just teach me?" he groaned petulantly, forcing Hermione to inhale a frustrated sigh.

"I will be at the castle teaching all day, Tom. Wouldn't you be tired?"

"We have enough money, Mum. Once I finish Hogwarts and get a job, you won't need to work." 

Hermione swallowed as he set them up at an impasse. She knew that he was aware of their wealthy financial status, though he did not know that it wasn't truly genuine. Over the years the family magic of Alarie accepted her as she was the only one pursuing it, otherwise it would have saturated the soil each ancestral ward guarded around as an extremely fertile crop area. 

"But when you get a job, who's going to keep me company, little one?" she brushed the pad of her thumb over his cheek. "Besides, if you find yourself interested in the position I hold, you can take it off of me and I'll give it to you gladly."

"Really?" his eyes widened.

"Of course, as long as you get the best marks possible." she bargained futilely; whether in this timeline or the original, the boy was a bloody genius. 

Tom nodded resolutely, "You have to be home by reading time though."

"Oh absolutely, prince."

The two shared a smile reserved only for each other. Hopefully, as the years passed and Tom grew older, their bond wouldn't deteriorate as many parental bonds did at teenage years. 

Hermione could only hope that the childhood she gave was enough to sway her little prince away from the dark.

She could only hope.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry for such a long wait omg (it's been just over a month, I think).  
> How are you?


	8. Chapter 8 u

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thomas and Hermione finally meet.

Hermione bit her lip anxiously, ignoring the metallic taste invading her taste buds as her mind raced to come up with a way she could gently convey the information of an important meeting to be held with her adopted son's biological father. It hadn't taken as long as she had anticipated for the time traveller to gain knowledge of the location of Riddle Estate given that they were a minor society family. In earnest, the reason she had deliberately postponed reaching out to the man and his family was fear of losing they boy whom she had cared for and nurtured during his childhood years. Since she had been transported back in time, the larger part of her life centralised around Tom Marvolo Riddle given that her original friends and family had ceased to exist for another fifty or so years.

"Mum?" Tom questioned impatiently, his hands itching to remove himself from the dining table in order to converse with a new garden snake he had made friends with.

Hermione grimaced as she tugged at every ounce of the brashness her former Gryffindor self had possessed. In her letters to Headmaster Dippet, she had carefully claimed to have been a member of the Beauxbaton house of Ombrelune as the qualities resembled the traits of a Slytherin. Her need to be sorted as a professor of the snakes would allow her to keep a more watchful eye on Tom without raising suspicion. All she had to do now was beg the sorting hat. "Yes, dear?"

"You asked me to wait... will you say something?"

Hermione sighed as she traced the rim of the glass she had been drinking from, "I found your father." she stated bluntly, not bothering to sugar-coat in hopes that in the future he would thank her for it.

Tom sat silently, his penetrative green eyes studying her carefully for what felt like hours until he shrugged. "So?"

"So... you have to meet him. Tomorrow." she continued hesitantly.

"Okay..?"

Hermione blinked at her son incredulously. She knew that he often had trouble expressing his internal feelings and often couldn't even decipher _how to feel,_ but she had expected a far more... energetic reaction than he was presenting her with. "You're not at all bothered?"

Tom shrugged again, "Even if this man is my father, her certainly isn't _Dad_." he smiled toothily, "You're _Mum_ , not Mother."

The curly haired witch allowed a small smile to blossom onto her own face; the reassurance from _her child_ that he wouldn't allow himself to abandon her warming her heart. She pulled his chair towards her and kissed his forehead, "Thank you, mon chéri,"

"Pas de problème, Maman," he grinned toothily as he reiterated a line he had read within one of Hermione's countless French Translation books. "May I be excused?"

"Certainly," she nodded, watching with glassy eyes as the short boy scrambled outside towards the strawberry bushes. "Certainly," she repeated with a sigh as her gaze cast down onto her lap wherein lay the affirmative letter of correspondence commencing next noon.

Hermione hoped that Tom Sr. didn't cause a commotion.  
  
  


ooOoo  
  
  


Dressed in the rich, burgundy dress she had first arrived in 1926 in, Hermione dusted a natural layer of blush over her pale cheeks as Tipsy pinned her tamed curls in an ornate style. With a small squeal and a final comb of rhinestones tucked into her fancy bun, the house elf announced her completion of her look. "Maîtresse est belle!"

"Thank you, Tipsy." The elf bowed before returning to its duties leaving Hermione alone with Tom who was clad in a miniature muggle suit. Hermione smiled, "You look smashing, Tom."

"You look beautiful, Mum." he reciprocated as he clutched her warm hand with his tightly.

Hermione lifted him up and hugged him close to her chest, "You must hold tight and no matter what, don't let go. Understand?"

"Yes, mum." he held tightly onto her shoulders.

Hermione nodded her head in approval, placing a quick kiss to his cheek, "I don't know what will happen exactly. All I ask is that you try and form a civil relationship with your father at the very least."

"What if he asks me to stay with him?" he questioned innocently, unknowing of the turmoil the simple inquiry stirred within Hermione's stomach.

She forced a smile, "Ultimately, the decision is yours, darling." 

Leaving the child to ponder over her words for a few seconds, Hermione reminded him to hold tight before she sucked him in side-along apparation with a loud crack. She focussed her magic into muffling the noise of her arrival whilst keeping the image of Riddle House clear within her mind. Once the suffocation and nausea after being transported through atoms that felt like plastic tubes that were too small to fit through, the little family stumbled and collapsed onto sot, luscious grass that cushioned their bodies from the heavy impact.

Panting, Hermione stood up on shaky legs, pulling Tom onto his feet as she cleansed them both with a quick "Scourgify".

"You okay?" she asked, her eyes frantically searching for any signs of severed limbs and deep wounds.

Tom nodded, his skin slowly regaining its alabaster glory from the green tinge induced by the mode of travel.

Hermione swiped her lips with a layer of pale pink gloss before picking her son up once again. She weeded through the field until the sight of the back of a butler or a guard - she couldn't tell - prompted her to call out.

"Excuse me!"

"Are you lost, Ma'am?" the man queried in a posh tone.

"Is this Riddle House?" she retorted, shifting Tom slightly in her arms into a more comfortable position.

"Indeed it is. Do you have an appointment with any of the House of Riddle?"

"Yes, sir. It's with Tom Riddle."

The man let out a polite laugh, "I'm sorry, Ma'am, but you will have to be more specific with which one."

"There's more than one Tom Riddle?" Hermione grimaced. She hadn't though of researching her Tom's grandparents figuring that the acceptance from his biological father would suffice.

"Are you sure-" the man began patronisingly only to be cut off by the sound of a horse's neigh and the staccato beat of its hooves hitting the cobble ground rhythmically halt. "Master Riddle." he greeted with a tip of his hat.

The fairly young man clad in fitted, white trousers and a complimenting black tailcoat and horseback riding jacket smirked and nodded his acknowledgement. He looked like the spitting image of the young Lord Voldemort Hermione had seen in one of Harry's memories in the Chamber of Secrets. 

The handsome man tilted his head over his shoulder to glance at the dark haired boy who's arms were resting on her shoulders almost protectively. He noticed how uncanny the appearance of the child resembled his childish self and concluded that this was the woman who had sent letters to him on strange paper through an owl as a medium. "Who are you?" he finally asked after mentally appraising her rather splendid dress. He had never seen something quite like it.

"Hermione Alarie, sir." her voice was soft and unconsciously seductive to the ear. "I have an arranged meeting with a Tom Riddle, though I'm not sure which one I have been speaking to over letter."

"That would be me," he drawled, jumping off of his treasure with a loud thud. "I take it this is the boy you were telling me about?"

Hermione nodded. "Yes, sir."

He offered her his hand, "Such topics are better discussed inside. Come,-" he said, gesturing to the patient horse, "Musn't let a lady walk if it can be helped."

Hermione allowed a polite smile as he hoisted her onto the horse's back. She kept a firm grip on her Tom's small frame, lest he let go of her shoulders and fly out of her arms whilst Tom Sr. clambered on behind her. "Charming,"

His front was flush against her back, his body heat radiating and warming her in manners that had not been achievable by the pitiful few males she had dated in the 90s. Two perfectly sculpted arms encased her and Tom as the older man yanked the reigns to urge the beautiful horse to trot on forward. The ride was fairly silent as Tom Sr. focussed on guiding them to his home and Tom Jr. assessed him. Hermione couldn't help but ignore the presence of the two males and focus on the picturesque scenery of the property.

"You have beautiful gardens," she commented kindly as they passed a stone fountain that both looked pleasing and efficiently watered the soil surrounding it enough for the flowers to flourish. 

Tom Sr. smiled, showcasing a set of pearly, straight teeth that younger Hermione would have killed for until Madam Pomfrey had resized and fixed her teeth. "It is one of the prides of the Riddle Family." he admitted as he slowed his horse down in order to dismount. 

Jumping off, he made hands to lift his biological son down before helping Hermione off gracefully. He lead them into a grand parlour after instructing another roaming butler to take his horse back into the stables. Offering tea (and juice for the smaller wizard), Hermione politely accepted as per social customs and took a dainty sip, wandlessly checking for any malicious additives that could harm them, before they conversed about the matter at hand.

Tom Sr. cleared his throat. "For ease, you may call me Thomas."

Hermione nodded, "Right, Thomas." she tested, liking the way his name rolled off her tongue in a manner so different to the way when she spoke to her little Tom. 

"Who are you?" the little boy asked, seemingly uninterested in the polite game the two adults were playing.

Thomas' gaze shifted from the aesthetic woman to the young boy who's hands were holding onto hers in a tight, childish grip. "Your father apparently,"

Hermione shook her head in disagreement with his choice of wording, "Not apparently. Definitely. I have DNA test results to prove it."

Thomas grimaced, "I think the similarities in appearances are enough."

Tom narrowed his eyes at the older man, "Why am I only meeting you now? Did you run away before I was born?"

Thomas kept his gaze steady on Hermione, "Is he the spawn of _Merope Gaunt_?" he spat his name as though it were a poison. 

"Child." she corrected, the silent agreement hanging thickly in the air.

That was all that was needed to unleash Thomas' more hostile demeanour. Gone was the coldly charming personality she had brief interaction with. In its replacement was a man who had been angered to the extent that his flawless, pale skin tinged red under the fury coursing through his veins. 

"I will not acknowledge any spawn from that.. _that_ _freak_! Especially if he's a freak!" he yelled, his dexterous looking hands curling into fists as he attempted to clasp a leash on his ire. 

"Why do you call people like her freaks, Mister Riddle?" she questioned calmly. There would be no point in both adults losing their tempers and she needed her mind clear in order to conclude with a deal that suited all three parties, most importantly Tom's.

"Because _she_ and everyone like _her_ drug innocent people into loving them and then rape them till they're with child!" the veins in his hands became prominent as they shook. "Then they have the _audacity_ to complain about us leaving when her actions were inexcusable!"

Hermione kept her countenance artfully blank as Thomas assessed them with frantic eyes. She wrapped a protective arm around Tom as he glared at the man who did not want to claim to be his birth father. He looked into the man's green eyes and breached his defenceless mind. Upon first notice, his thoughts were far more muddled and incomprehensible than those of the wizards he had attempted to read the minds of. Many thoughts of a rather foul looking woman whirred around the forefront wherein they appeared to be deeply in love.

"Sir," she started softly, "I can help you with the trauma in the best ways that I know,"

"What can you do?" he sneered, "I've tried a shrink, I've tried finding someone else to-" he cut himself off.

"Play with?" Hermione suggested helpfully.

"Yeah, that." he grumbled in embarrassment. 

Delicately, the witch covered Tom's ears though she doubted that would block his hearing much. "I have suffered far greater than what other women of my age have. It's maddening being the only one, isn't it? No matter how many people you tell, the fact that they can't truly understand the depth of your pain, your suffering, hinders you from recovering as quick as you could with a person who did,"

Thomas had quietened, his hands ceased to shake and the angry veins disappeared from peripheral sight. "But... you're a woman-" he stated hesitantly, as though his brain couldn't wrap around the fact that the young woman sitting before him could have experienced things that induced far greater trauma than what he had. "And y-you're young!" he looked up at her intensely.

Hermione smiled bitterly, willing back the tears that began forming at the mere passing thought of the friends and family she had lost. "Man... Woman... there is no care for age or gender during war." she sighed as she brushed the pad of her thumb over Tom's small hands, "Sometimes war is about fighting for what you believe in and ensuring justice; and sometimes you're just a measly pawn a part of a vast chess game that none but the leaders would understand."

The two adults swallowed thickly as her words loomed over them. 

Hermione cleared her throat delicately. "I apologise for this. It's fairly obvious you do not want to claim paternity over Tom. We'll take your leave." she stood up, dusted her dress and pulled Tom through the door they had entered from. Upon reaching the main entrance, they were stopped by the sound of Thomas.

"Wait." Hermione and Tom both looked up. "Next week. Tuesday. We shall go to the identities office and sign my acknowledgement."

Hermione smiled softly, "Tuesday." she agreed before exiting Riddle House.


	9. Chapter 9 u

As soon as the secure wards around Alarie Estate allowed the little family to enter, Tom made a beeline for his room ignoring Hermione's calls to discuss what had happened at Riddle House.

That man was irrefutably his father. Everything, from his hair to his eye colour even down to the way they stood (or more like the subconscious manner the little boy was beginning to stand) led to the conclusion that they were closely related.

But _he_ didn't want him.

Straight off the bat he had stated with passion that he wouldn't want his own flesh and blood if he was a freak like his mum. _And what was all the talk about drugs_? Tom honestly doubted that his mum, _Hermione_ , would resort to using potions or muggle narcotics of any kind in order to achieve a paramour. Furthermore, the two houses they separately resided in were so far apart that travelling such a distance (even by apparation) seemed like a waste.

_What wasn't Mum telling him?_

He didn't feel like confronting her at the moment, especially not after ignoring her beckons to sit and discuss the prior events earlier. She'd be leaving for Hogwarts shortly and though he wanted to make the most of the time they had left together, he also didn't want to face her inevitable wrath. Tomorrow, her anger would be slightly subdued after sleeping, thus his punishment would be less severe.

 _Better get Maisy to send his food up here,_ Tom thought as he hissed for his unofficial pet snake.

Tom knew that Hermione knew that he repeatedly conversed with snakes and he had enough intellect to figure that the trait had not come from her given that he had not once caught her hissing at a scaly reptile before. However, after meeting his father who was most definitely a muggle, his thoughts began to shift as his special gift (as Hermione liked to call it) wasn't a trait from either of them.

Did that mean Hermione wasn't his actual mother? Did that mean that he, Tom Riddle, was not birthed from the womb of the woman who read him to sleep, tucked him into bed, comforted him after nightmares, fed him, clothed him and so much more than could be asked for? Her intellect was something he aspired to have and was well on the way to achieving, but if the natural ability didn't come from her then whom was it? 

"Well if she's not my actual mum, who is?" he wondered quietly aloud, "Maybe mother was running from something and died? Is Mum actually my godmother? Am I adopted?"

As he continued rambling in front of his reflection in the mirror of his bedroom, Hermione felt a lone tear slide down her cheek as she leaned against the closed door of her adopted son's room. Guilt welled in her stomach as she slowly came to terms with the fact that hiding his true heritage any longer would prove to set a boulder in their relationship. She knew she would have to explain soon, the book titles she had seen months ago now flitting across her mind as she planned when and how to confess. 

However, had Hermione truly done anything wrong?

Of course, hiding a person's heritage was unethical and personally humiliating as it could be interpreted as a lack of trust but on the other hand, she had done so for pure reasons. A bitter laugh nearly escaped her lips, "How Machiavellian of you, Granger," she mumbled to herself as she lifted her hand to dry the damp spot her tear had left on her cheek.

With a sigh, the aging witch retired to her own room after ensuring that Maisy had given Tom his dinner. The house elf hadn't believed her ears when Hermione had claimed she didn't wish to eat in that moment and promptly stuffed the witch's mouth with a warm baguette. Not wanting to hurt the elf's feelings, she slowly finished the bread as she tidied her room without her magic. Majority of it was pretty much immaculate but the small area dedicated to the few pictures and remnants she had of her arduous past had been neglected as she could not muster her supressed Gryffindor courage to face the boys who she had fought alongside with against her adopted son, against _her Tom_. 

Had they been alive and she had planned in taking the orphan boy under her wing, they would have questioned if she had lost her wits in the chamber of secrets. Ron would have called her barmy and would've outright refused to allow her to go; Harry would react similarly though he would concede by either the end of the day or sometime within the week as he knew whenever she planned, she planned thoroughly. 

"Oh Harry, Ron," her voice cracked as another wave of tears threatened to break her composure, "I'm sorry," Placing the framed photograph back onto the mantle of the hearth with a dying fire, Hermione hastily readied herself for bed before curling into a ball under her soft comforter. 

Tonight would be restless for the two residents of Alarie Estate, and neither had the courage to confront each other.

//

"I'm sorry for not listening to you yesterday... Mum,"

Hermione fought back a wince at the delay of her title. She flashed him a quick smile, "You were taking in a lot of information,"

An awkward silence came over them, neither knowing what to say to each other after the revelations unveiled from the prior night. Opting to steer away from any heritage conversation, Hermione quickly chastised herself internally for performing so poorly. "I will need some of your blood to strengthen the wards for you before I leave for Hogwarts." she said curtly.

Tom nodded, silently thanking her for inadvertently giving him leeway to asking the questions that had painted dark circles under his eyes. "How is it that I can speak to snakes?"

Hermione stilled, her impassive countenance morphing into a small frown of complexity as she thought of ways to respond to his question. "So you have realised?"

"That neither you nor the man you claim to be my father have the ability? Then yes." 

The witch swallowed as she stirred her rapidly cooling cup of tea, fear settling in the pits of her being as she skimmed over the most likely ways he would react. "He is your biological father, Tom," she started.

"You're not my actual mother, are you?" his question came across as a statement, something so absurd for a child of 9 years of age.

Hermione shook her head. "I'm not your birth mother, no," 

"Then where did you get me from?"

"Don't make it sound like I bought you from a circus, Tom," she scolded before taking a warming sip, the hot liquid sliding down her throat calming her minutely. "I adopted you from a truly horrific orphanage. You had just been born and... I couldn't condemn an innocent child to a life like that," she explained truthfully.

"So if I hadn't just been born... if I had been older you wouldn't have adopted me?" he accused, his arms crossing over his chest and his green eyes darkening at the betrayal he felt.

"Of course I would have adopted you, Tom!" she consoled, reaching her hand out to comb her fingers through his dark hair. "It's always you. Everything I do is for you, to help you have a good life."

"Then where's my actual mother?"

"She... passed away after giving birth. When I saw her.. or more her corpse, she looked emaciated, unwell. From what I heard she had stated there had been a few complications in her pregnancy but she lived long enough to name you, kiss you."

"And what name was that?"

Hermione smiled softly, "The very name you go by now."

Tom's confrontational demeanour dropped as he leaned leaped off of his chair to scramble into her awaiting lap. The dark haired boy cuddled the woman who had raised him since he was a wriggly baby that couldn't do much save for crying. "You didn't change my name?"

"I couldn't rid you entirely of your heritage. That's where you get the inherited ability to speak to snakes." she explained, sighing in relief internally that his anger had subsided and the stress had been lifted, "It's an ancient kind of magic called parseltongue. Those with the ability to speak it are called parselmouths."

"Am I the only one who can speak it?"

"I'm not sure if any of your mother's relatives are still alive, but if they are I'd assume they can speak it too," she shifted so Tom faced her, "Tom, there are negative correlations to parselmouths," she warned, "It is seen as a dark wizard trait, and should anyone else find out you will be ridiculed, ostracised."

"But it makes me _special_!"

"I didn't say that it didn't make you special," she soothed, "But many historic wizards who had the trait committed evil deeds which led the wider public into thinking that people with the ability to speak parseltongue are evil. You're not evil... are you Tom?"

"No..."

Hermione kissed his forehead, "Even if you are my adopted son, you will forever be _my son_ , my sweet little raindrop."

"And you will forever be my Mum, promise?" he held his small pinky finger for her to take.

Hermione chuckled and entwined her larger finger with his, "Promise."

//

Tuesday came faster than the duo expected resulting in a frantic Hermione searching for appropriate clothing to wear while Maisy ensured Tom stopped attempting to suffocate himself with his lilac tie. Huffing, she had settled for a lilac gown that was a mixture of both wizarding and muggle culture - handcrafted and stitched by herself. It was simple, elegant and had rhinestones attached along the neckline, waistline and hem of the dress. Maisy had magicked her curly hair into a low bun with tendrils framing her face sophisticatedly. 

"Ready?"

Tom nodded and clutched tightly as they landed in the dry field that they had fallen into last time. Summer was now falling upon Great Britain as the nascent of May brought forward more sunshine and heat they had experienced in the prior months. The walk to Riddle House was pleasant with the guard man instructing a waiting butler to take them to the foyer. The gentle breeze pleasantly brushed against their faces as a different yet undeniably beautiful horse escorted them to the house. With the help of the butler, Tom and Hermione were now playing a small game of _I spy with my little eye_ in order to pass the time it took for Thomas to greet them.

"Apologies," he breathed heavily, "I.. uh.. overslept,"

Hermione smiled pleasantly, "No worries, I completely forgot until Tom reminded me literally twenty minutes ago," 

Thomas smirked at his son and his adoptive mother, "Lilac?" he questioned her choice in colour of attire, absently noting how the two were matching.

She looked down at her robe and fiddled with the material between her fingers, "I'm feeling rather calm,"

"Do you normally choose colours based on your moods?"

"Not consciously,"

Thomas then averted his attention to the boy sitting beside the charming woman, "Hello,"

"Hello," the boy replied disinterestedly.

_How the hell am I supposed to converse with whom I hadn't known existed and did not want upon initial discovery but is my son?_

"And what's your name?" he tried again, having half a mind to glare at the woman for silently snickering behind her dainty little hand.

"The same as yours," the boy retorted.

"Thomas?"

"Just Tom."

"Bloody hell," he grumbled, "Creative with names aren't we?" he mumbled to nobody in particular before straightening and clearing his throat. "Well, we shall take Nefatari to the agency I have booked a meeting with. There we'll fill out the necessary forms for me to claim legal paternity over.. Tom and I'm free of my duties for the remainder of the day so if he'd like we can take a walk perhaps?"

"Is Nefatari your horse?" Tom asked inquisitively.

"Yes," Thomas confirmed.

"Is your horse Egyptian?"

"No, she's a purebred Arabian,"

"Then why give her an Egyptian name? Why not something like Halifa?"

Thomas blinked. "Um," he looked at Hermione who had ruffled the little tykes hair and politely told him to stop questioning other people's choices, "Is he always like this?"

Tom narrowed his eyes at him, "What do you mean by _like this_?" his tone accusatory.

"He didn't mean it to insult you, Tom," Hermione soothed, placing a kiss on his small forehead, "Now quit asking questions before I feed you to that blasted snake you keep calling over at home!"

Thomas observed his son's subservience to the lilac clad woman. He had grinned toothily - in such a childish manner that the older man couldn't remember ever doing it himself as he was a child - and deferred with a simple "Okay Mum," though his glinting green eyes told another story.

Thomas groaned internally, the little tyke would be difficult to form a bond with but at least with Tom came Hermione and she was simply wonderful. He wouldn't mind forming a different kind of bond with the woman either, in fact it would be like hitting two birds with one stone. If he formed a relationship with Hermione, Tom would come as a packaged deal and if need be, vice versa too.

There was his excuse, Thomas concluded, and it had primarily started because of that drugging freak.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed!  
> I'm writing the first draft of edited versions of the published chapter so that by the time this original is finished, within the week of it being completed I can replace these old chapters with more refined ones.  
> Thanks for reading!!


	10. Chapter 10 u

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thomas' point of view after their first meeting at Riddle House.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's quite a short chapter, sorry. So... another week in lockdown has passed and it snowed today!  
> Hope you're all alright and taking care of yourselves x

Thomas sighed heavily as he locked the doors of his ancestral home once the witch and his son had vacated the premises. He leaned against it, his head hitting the wooden material harshly as his mind reeled over the events that had transgressed in the matter of an hour.

His _son_. 

It was blatantly obvious that the little boy idolised the woman he was raised by, mother by blood or not, and Thomas couldn't blame him for in the sparse few moments he had (rather poorly) entertained her company and through the neat penmanship on parchment he had concluded that she was a woman to be reckoned with. Since his sudden freedom of the entrapping marriage he had found himself in under the influence of a drug he had never heard of before, Thomas had vowed to never venture through that particular route again in case he wound up under the effects of something more difficult to overcome. Subconsciously, he had made it a point to avoid anybody with the slightest bit of magical aura surrounding them; not that he was magically inclined to understand whether they had one, no. It was more of a gut feeling than anything else but he had learnt from his mistakes and would continually practice to avoid another damning mishap.

Once the pair had left, the man had berated himself for reacting as brashly as he had. It wasn't Hermione's fault that another of her kind had left a tainted impression on himself and the hours-long berating he had received from his eavesdropping parents ensured that the next time they convened he would perform with utmost decorum.

Stupidly, he had hastily accepted to adopt his own blood despite having no intention on keeping the freak within the walls he resided in. Hermione could deal with him and if required he would pitch in support as part of the shared parenting agreement. 

A knock sounded on the door of his bedroom prompting an exhausted "Come in," to fall from his lips. 

"Thomas," his mother, Mary Riddle, frowned sympathetically at the tousled state of her only son. She manoeuvred to seat herself upon his soft mattress while he shifted to sit on the luxurious rug spread on the floor. Resting his head against his mother's legs, Thomas closed his eyes at Mary's gentle cafuné. "Why are you upset, my dear?"

The man swallowed thickly, urging himself to smother the psychotic scream threatening to breach the confines of his sore throat. "He's mine. The spawn of that she-devil is _mine_ ,"

"Don't call my grandson a spawn," she scolded, lightly smacking his head of dark, silky locks, "He carries more of the Riddle traits than _hers_. _She_ practically does not exist within him."

"He's a _freak_ , Mother. Just like her and the woman caring for him is a _freak_ too,"

Mary sniffed, "The woman - what was her name? - sounded quite pleasant. Are you sure they are freaks?"

Thomas nodded against her leg, the soft material of her dress enveloping him in an embrace that nobody but a mother could do. " _Hermione_ confirmed it. They called themselves magical."

"You seemed quite enamoured with the witch," Mary hinted as she combed through his locks. 

Thomas looked at her worriedly, "What if it's the same events occurring again? What if I'm being punished for abandoning the lady pregnant with my child? What if-"

"What if my grandson and his adoptive mother is a means to change your opinion of people like them?" she countered, promptly ending his cyclical questions of what ifs. "Rather than treating this as a terrible reunion, consider it as an opportunity to sire a legitimate heir to the House of Riddle."

"Is Tom not liable to claim the title?"

"Of course he is, though people will talk and talking never ends well with names of power." Mary reminded, "Although your marriage was made public knowledge, your divorce was equally so. Naturally, people will assume that the child is out of wedlock considering his appearance is nine years late."

"So you want me to have- you want me to marry Hermione?" Thomas eyes widened in fright, "No! You cannot do that! Both you and Father know very well of my intentions of not engaging in marital relationships."

In the moment, as soon as those words left his lips, he felt ghostly fingers crawling up the flesh of his left thigh. Cool, skeletal digits wrapped their suffocating presence around his neck forcing him to choke under the lack of oxygen reaching his lungs. He remembered the night he had supposedly impregnated _her_. A night, once free from the illusions created by the magical drug, Thomas endeavoured to forget. Though on the most part his nights were peaceful, tranquil, calm; occasionally the strangled moans that he had once adored and the grotesque feeling of her almost inhumane body rubbing against his plagued his mind for the remainder of the week it had arrived. Thomas had attempted to derive a pattern from its appearances but deduced it as spontaneous, haunting himself further given that he couldn't make provisions to avoid the taunting reminders of his helplessness. He had initially attended counselling sessions optimistically with hopes that he would finally rid himself of the disease he called _Merope_ _Gaunt_ , though now after meeting with the very child _she_ had birthed it seemed he was destined to live with her memory.

Hermione Alarie had no connections to the revolting woman he had once made his bride aside from taking upon the role as the care giver for his son. She had nurtured the boy into an obedient yet offensive little warrior though he was unsure if his true nature, his true heritage, had any impacts on his behaviour.

From Mary's words, she sounded as though she was speaking on behalf of his Father as well when she hinted that himself and Hermione would make an intriguing couple. It was as though he had their blessing to court her before a proposal.

She was fascinating, Thomas could allow them that. Her politeness never wavering despite the insults he had hurled regarding herself and those like her. They way she spoke about war forced him to believe that she had far more experience in battle than he ever would and her constant glances towards the closed doors and windows seemed more of a defensive habit than impulsive for her eyes were carefully guarded yet they revealed what he needed to know. 

Fascinating.

"She is interesting..." Thomas trailed off as his eyes locked onto the ticking clock hanging on the wall. "Any talk of courting will remain quiet until I can confirm definite interest."

"Of course, love," Mary smiled, placing a kiss on his head. "I would love to spend time with my grandson whilst you woo the pretty witch next week,"

Thomas sighed, "Tom's presence is required for the adoption."

"You don't sound happy about that."

"He doesn't like me."

Mary released an undignified snort, "I wouldn't either if I found out that I had been abandoned by my father for reasons I could not control."

Thomas glared at his mother.

"It will take time, Thomas," she admitted with a final kiss to his cheek, "Play with him, take him out to the park, let him ride Nefatari with you... you must form a bond now before it is too late."

Thomas nodded resolutely, "Did you hear what he said about my Nef? The little-"

Mary's laughter resounded around the walls of his room as Thomas continued to rant about the nerve of the nine year old boy that was both his salvation and his horrific reminder of the past.


	11. Chapter 11 u

The necessary forms had been signed and little Tom's ID had been legitimately created to confirm Thomas' paternity. Standing outside of the small, private agency; the young, complicated family stood opposite each other in a tense silence beside Nefatari.

"Thank you, Mr-"

"Thomas," the dark haired man interjected, "I suspect we will be seeing each other quite often now. Best to start on a first name basis."

Hermione allowed a small smile to play on her lips as she helped Tom onto the back of the arabian horse. "Hermione," Setting her softer hand in his, the witch hoisted herself and settled comfortably before ensuring that Tom held tightly whilst Thomas clambered on behind them and took a hold of the reins. Despite the clock only nearing noon, Hermione's eyes slowly slipped shut in attempts to snatch a quick nap only to be continuously jolted awake to stop herself from toppling over. "Did you ever imagine yourself with a child?" she asked conversationally as she tousled a few of her son's dark locks.

"Not after the incident," he admitted, "I haven't been able to touch another woman since,"

Hermione frowned at the after thought. Love potions - Amortentia in this case - only incited false infatuation that was removed over time as the person's metabolism discharged it from the body. "Why not?"

"Another time," Thomas said evasively as he slowly pulled Nefatari to a stop by an open fountain in what appeared to be the town park. "This is Little Hangleton Park,"

Hermione smirked, "How imaginative,"

"I can assure you, Miss Alarie, that it is only my family that has recycled its male names so far,"

"You pride yourself in that?"

Thomas shrugged and offered the woman his hands, "To an extent," he finished as he helped both her and the little tyke off of his horse. "Mother suggested that I form a bond with little Tom now so as to save myself more grief later on,"

Hermione raised an eyebrow, "And if your mother hadn't, what would you have done?" she asked whilst dutifully dusting off invisible specks from both her own and the green eyed boy's attire. Though she was proud that the boy she cared for immensely looked impeccable beside his well-dressed father, the witch couldn't help but feel plain in comparison despite having been comforted by her child that she did indeed look beautiful. 

Such a silver tongue at the age of nine; the boy was destined to inadvertently break the hearts of many unfortunate witches.

"I still would have tried," he placated, "Just not as fast." clearing his throat, he pointed towards a mobile ice cream stall and queried whether they were fancying a light sweet. 

"Three scoops," Tom demanded.

"Tom," Hermione warned in attempts to dissuade him from over taxing his father, "You do remember what happened the last time you had three, don't you?" 

The boy merely pouted petulantly, "Mum, I'm a big boy now. I can handle three,"

Thomas crouched to his son's height, quietly engaging in an unspoken staring contest as he tried to decipher the reason behind the boy's hostility. One would have estimated that the boy would be delighted to finally have a male figure (who intended to be as best of a role model as he could be) in his life though with the rancour present, Thomas couldn't help but wonder what made him so. Hermione seemed as good as a mother as one could be and despite the lack of a husband, she appeared financially comfortable enough to be able to provide the boy with clothing made of silk-like material.

It was somewhat softer than silk, the man realised as he straightened the child's collar till it was as sharp as his own. "Two scoops," he bargained.

"Three,"

"Two,"

"Two with sprinkles," the finality in Tom's tone brought amusement to Thomas as he absently noted the boy had the skill of negotiation that could aid him in politics should he pursue a career in it no matter the world.

"Two with sprinkles," Thomas agreed as he let the boy wrap his small fingers around two of his fingers as they walked towards the stand. "What flavour?"

Tom glanced at his mum before asking, "What's your favourite, mister?"

"Er..." the older man hesitated, "Mint chocolate chip,"

Tom's face scrunched in confusion before it morphed into a faint grin, "Mine too!"

Hermione graced Nefatari with her smile as she watched to the reunited Riddles bond over their liking of her bête noire and their disliking over her favourite ice cream flavour. Stroking the horse's side, the witch contemplated whether riding the elegant animal would be trespassing over the uncertain boundaries in Thomas and hers acquaintanceship. The white horse tilted her head as though it were questioning why she was standing still as the two males she accompanied had proceeded a fair distance ahead. Nudging her with a disgruntled noise, Hermione called forth on her caged Gryffindor spirit and leaped onto the back of the horse, clutching on the reins tightly as she accustomed herself with the position she hadn't adopted since her third year at Hogwarts. 

Nearly two decades ago according to her soul's existence on Earth.

Throwing caution to the wind, Hermione ensured to collect an apple when passing a drooping apple tree for the horse as they caught up to the two males quickly. Upon hearing the rhythmic beat of hooves beating the path, Thomas and Tom both moved to the side and paused,; the man's eyes wide in more shock than anger.

Hermione, the overthinker that she is, immediately expressed her apologies while moving to jump off only to be halted by a haste "No!"

"Huh?" she said in confusion.

"This is..." he began before starting over with a shake of his head, "Nefatari usually doesn't allow anybody other than myself to ride her. If she willingly let you then damn witch you've got her wrapped around that wooden stick of yours,"

Hermione smiled and petted the horse affectionately as she watched Tom pinch his father and inform him of the requirement of secrecy regarding their heritage. "Thank you, Tom," she praised before cleansing the ice cream surrounding his mouth with a lilac handkerchief she had kept in her purse.

The boy flashed her a toothy grin and gave the woman a hug. 

"You can go for a ride with Nefatari if you'd like. She knows her way back," Thomas offered. 

As tempting as the idea was, Hermione couldn't risk leaving her child alone with a man they had met personally less than a week ago. Biological father or not, Tom Marvolo Riddle was _Hermione's child_ and she'll be damned if anything happened to her son if she could have prevented it. Though her over-protectiveness was by no means absurd, her friends nor those apart of what they liked to call the inner quartet would ever be able to understand the true reasoning underneath the maternal instincts she had gained by growing fond of the dark haired onyx-green eyed boy.

It was jarring having nobody who could ever truly understand her predicament, though through understanding that nobody would ever have to suffer at the hands of another, arguably more formidable, Dark Lord Hermione comforted herself that despite her suffering the world would be better off and pain ends with time, correct?

"No, it's alright." she declined, "Perhaps another day once I can ensure that I won't topple over every few steps we could have a race?"

Thomas smirked, an expression the witch could see developing on the face of her mischievous son in his teenage years, "Are you trying to become Nefatari's favourite, Hermione? I hate to disappoint but I have that spot secure,"

"I wouldn't be too sure about that, Thomas," Hermione threw the remainder of the apple that the horse had refused to eat, "I think Tom and I are already a close second,"

Thomas scoffed, "Second is nothing!"

Tom stared at his father, "Second is better than nothing. Especially when we can rise even higher and take first."

The older man blinked and glanced at Hermione, "He should consider becoming a politician in the future,"

Hermione shrugged, "His career and his future is his own choice,"

"You won't try and nudge him into something within the..uh... what should I call your place?"

Hermione bit her lip, "Maj? It's conspicuous enough,"

"Right," Thomas nodded, "You won't try and push him into a parliament job in Maj?"

"Parliament?" Tom questioned as he attempted to keep up with the adults' conversation.

"Muggle equivalent of the Ministry," Hermione explained quietly as a couple walked past disinterestedly. 

"Ohhh,"

"No I will not, though I will hold onto my teaching post until he has decided on a career," Hermione answered Thomas' question. 

Looking at the small boy that had busied himself in throwing his ice cream stained tissue in the bin, Thomas mumbled, "You really care for him,"

Hermione's stance steeled and her expression became guarded, "Care is an understatement," she focused an intense glare, much like she had seen resting on the cool demeanour of Narcissa Malfoy during her original time, "Hurt him and I will not hesitate to kill you, Thomas Riddle," she threatened, "As nice as magic is, you also know of the harm it can cause and I'm starting to like you so _please_ do not make me resort to hurting you for harming my son,"

Thomas swallowed involuntarily as he felt apprehension building within his form. As the heir to one of the older social families in Little Hangleton, Thomas had rarely ever been on the receiving end of death threats for he was usually the one delivering them. As a human without powers in opposition with a witch that had more than what he could ever fathom, the man quickly accepted the idea that Hermione Alarie could end him if they were enemies regardless of Tom as their token to allyship.

"I will try my best," was all he offered as the light patters of Tom's footsteps drew near, "I'll try."


	12. Chapter 12 u

"Mum," Tom asked as he carefully untied the laces of his shoes after their morning walk around the gardens of the Alarie Estate, "Can I ask you something?"

"Go for it," Hermione said as they settled opposite each other on the comfortable armchairs in the Clover Room.

"Why me?"

The witch looked at her an expectantly, "Why what you?"

The small boy sighed as he twiddled with his thumbs nervously. It was a question that had been bothering him since he had discovered the true nature of his... origin the day Hermione had taken him to visit his biological father. And although it was obvious that the older man was making more of an attempt to be friendly, Tom didn't know how trustworthy his potentially faux affection was and he didn't wish to sacrifice himself or his Mum in order to find out. "Why did you choose me... at the orphanage," he finally said, refusing to look at the witch in her eyes. Though from the corners of his peripheral vision, the young boy noticed her stiffen.

"Why do you ask?" Hermione shot back as her brain scrambled to conjure a response.

"Just answer the question please," Tom politely demanded, a trait he realised was gradually increasing in its effectiveness. It seemed to work on most though whenever he tried it on Hermione, he had to lather it up or forgo and simply say what he wanted upfront.

"Tom," she began as she rested her head against the back of the armchair, "I— don't know. I don't know,"

"Why don't you know? You had to be thinking of something when you chose me, right?"

Hermione bit her lip. It wasn't as though she could drop the entirety of the events that had occurred— if need be she could only tell him once he reached Wizarding Majority and that wasn't for another eight years. "What is your actual question, Tom? Why I picked you was because you are magical, and from what I've seen and studied, children don't take it kindly when another child can do something better than them. And as for what I was thinking, I wasn't thinking anything aside from that nobody should deserve to live in such a dingy little orphanage, especially not a child who would have his talents overlooked,"

Tom frowned. Truthfully, he hadn't known what to expect when his question tumbled past his lips. "How do you know that I would've been overlooked?"

The curly haired witch finally snapped. The tension brewing in her mind due to her having to leave the boy that was her son in everything but blood in order to teach children that had the luxury to live their childhood properly finally brought Hermione to the ends of her temper. "Do you want me to send you back there, Tom? Would you rather stay with them?" she breathed heavily, attempting to regain her composure, "If you don't want to be here any longer then just say so. I'll help you if it's what you truly want."

She desperately hoped it wasn't. It wasn't as though she was going to follow through with her threats. Of course not. As a young child herself she too had attempted to leave and never come back only to camp in the front yard and return for dinner time the following hour.

"No, Mum!" Tom panicked, he hadn't intended for their conversation to veer off to such an extent. He padded over to the witch and tentatively sat by her stomach (as she was still laying sideways), "Mum no. I want you, I love you,"

At his words, Hermione felt herself melt. Tom wasn't one to throw around terms like love as oftenly as he had when he was much younger. Sometimes even she couldn't comprehend how Lord Voldemort was unable to love given how affectionate Tom was to those he cherished.

Hermione sighed before she trapped him in a tight cuddle, "I'm sorry for shouting, my sweet raindrop," she kissed his cheek, tears threatening to overflow as she heard his mumbled acceptance, "I love you and I will always want you too. Especially when I'm old and need a cane to walk around,"

Tom laughed, the tinkling slightly manic sound resounding around the lively halls of Alarie Estate, "You? Old? You already are!"

Hermione pinched his leg at his jest with a smile. "I think I'd prefer timeless," she said with a content sigh as she looked out of the window.

Timeless indeed.

**ooOoo**

When the 30th of August dawned upon the Alarie-Riddle duo, Hermione found it prudent to visit Tom's father before disappearing to Hogwarts with an indefinite answer as to whether she would be able to continue their weekly visits.

Tom and Thomas had formed a tentative friendship — nothing as close to the bond Hermione herself had with her own father — nonetheless both the witch and Mary Riddle were pleased that the biological duo were making some form of progress. And thus, the curly haired witch had been invited for tea for the second time at Riddle House (considering Hermione had had to cancel the original visit early due to Tom falling ill after some kind of sweet Thomas had given him; shining a light on the little boy's mild allergy to pistachios).

"Hermione Alarie!" The guard greeted her with a pleasant smile before crouching down to chuck Tom's chin, "And the Tom Riddle. How are you both?"

"Wonderful, Mister Guardsman. Though it would be even better if you finally told us your name," Hermione replied with a cheeky grin. Ever since the visits to Riddle House became a weekly occurrence, Hermione and Tom had former somewhat of a friendship with the man who guarded the gates. He had refused to inform them of his name, prompting the duo to attempt him to spill it each time they visited to no avail.

"I'm sure Master Thomas will be able to make your day go from wonderful to absolutely splendid," the guard winked, prompting Hermione to flush.

"We aren't like that, Mister Guardsman and you know that."

The man sighed dramatically, "Maybe not now, but I know you will be soon at some point."

Hermione tilted her head as Tom took to tracing the carvings on the man's wooden baton, "What ever do you mean?"

"It's a gut feeling," he answered unhelpfully, falling quiet when the familiar clacking of Nefatari's hooves drew near.

The arabian horse had taken a liking to the two magic bearers and seemed to enjoy parading them around the grounds of Riddle whenever given the opportunity. Hermione had still yet to take on the challenge of racing Thomas, though with help from Nefatari over the months she was a fair bit more confident than she had been that day in the park after claiming paternity officially.

"Tom, Hermione!" Thomas grinned as he jumped off of his horse. The dark haired man held his hand out for Tom to shake — which he did albeit reluctantly — and helped his biological son onto his prized horse.

Placing a warm kiss to her knuckles courteously, Thomas helped Hermione onto the horse's back, complimenting the diamond flower strategically placed by Daisy in her elegant curls.

“Thank you, Thomas,” she smiled before greeting Mary Riddle — or Grams as she preferred to be called by Tom — with a wider smile.

As tea progressed and the two Toms stared around the room in desperation for an escape from the tedious talk, Hermione learned that Mary was from and was too a line of squibs. It turned out that the older woman only had a very vague overview on the wizarding world and what it entails and she usually judged by appearance to dictate whether the magical beings she met was nobility or not. Due to the Gaunts having depleted and destroyed their once prestigious name, Mary had not heard of them nor knew them enough to warn her son about Merope Gaunt. Despite the manner in which her grandson was conceived, she believed that any of her blood was welcome whether the biological father wanted to be rid or not (here she sent a glare to Thomas who had merely smiled bashfully as he taught Tom a particular move in chess).

“Both you and Thomas have been sighted together with Tom and although it is to our knowledge that he is not your biological son, the public do not. When should I begin planning the wedding?” Mary states casually after she sipped her tea with her pinky finger pointed up.

Hermione choked, “W-Wedding?” she used a charm to clear her airways, “I’m afraid there won’t be a wedding. I have a post as a professor in a boarding school and—”

“Pish posh!” Mary interrupted, “Whatever for? You seem quite well off without it,”

“I am aware of that too,” Hermione stated with barely concealed annoyance, “But my bringing one of... please do not be offended, one of your kind,” the witch hated the words rolling off her tongue, though it was the truth and she needed for herself and Tom to survive till Tom was old enough to earn a salary, “Would cause me a great loss with my connections. I nor Tom possess the same thinking as them but surely you understand the need to remain in the good graces of society?”

The good graces of the elite more like.

Mary raised a condescending eyebrow but reluctantly nodded, “Of course. That is all we women have, is it not?” she said almost bitterly.

Hermione hummed her distaste and agreement with a final sip.

She air-kissed Mary’s cheeks (exactly as Dorea had taught her nine years ago) and inadvertently pressed an actual kiss to Thomas’s cheek, prompting a sheepish blush to dust her cheeks.

“Sorry. Accident.” she mumbled out as she held Tom’s hand who was covertly bouncing in excitement at the idea of finally leaving.

Thomas, much to her surprise, kissed her cheek back and threw her a wink. “Take that as a token of my pity for when you lose in our race come Christmas.”

Hermione smirked, “Pity? More of a pre-race reward,”

Waving at the Riddles, Mary released Tom from her shower of kisses and the two wizards disapparated with a loud crack, leaving nothing but the empty juice carton and the empty cup of tea as a reminder of their visitation.

“Mother,” Thomas addressed, “Would you please stop trying to set us up? Neither of us are interested and we know the consequences of society.”

“Nonesense,” Mary said as she sipped the final bit of her sweetened tea, “You and Hermione make a perfect match. Grow some balls young man and woo her into marrying you. She’s a good one and I don’t intend on letting Tom or her stray far from us,”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, hope you’re all safe and well!


	13. Chapter 13

Hermione licked her lips, the tangy twinge of the gloss coated over the plump flesh leaving a bitter taste on her taste buds as she paced in front of the fireplace connected to the floo.

"Mum, I'll be fine. Stop worrying," Tom said as he swung his dangling legs from the edge of the viridian sofa.

"I know that, darling. I'd like to think that I've taught you well enough to defend yourself," Hermione smiled as she came to sit beside him, ruffling his dark curls as he whined in protest. "Oh shush, it's still perfect,"

Tom gave her a look of disbelief before taking hold of her hand. "Mum you're a great teacher. I'm a genius like you!"

"I wouldn't go as far as a genius—"

"Oh, shush," he mimicked earning a light smack on his knee, "Sorry," he grinned unapologetically, "Make sure to use the staff to scare them all!"

"I'm not sure I'll be allowed to bring that to Hogwarts,"

"In the Pureblood Directory it is legal to carry a family heirloom around anywhere legally as long as it isn't a direct threat," Tom recited. He pointed at the long, silver staff with a delicate ruby on the tip and the Alarie Crest engraved in a similar gem on the shaft. "That is an heirloom. You're allowed."

The curly haired witch fought back a frown as she stared at the priceless artefact that somewhat reminisced the cane she had seen Lucius Malfoy carry around in Diagon Alley.

"Perhaps," she conceded, "But I should hope I won't have to use it at all,"

"But Mum!" Tom said exasperatedly, "Just take it,"

Hermione raised an eyebrow at the boy, "Why are you being so insistent?"

"Just cause," he argued weakly and jumped off of the sofa to retrieve the Alarie Staff.

Although Tom would much rather use his abundance of magic to summon the magical item, Hermione had been insistent that he not rely on it to complete menial, daily tasks like keeping his hygiene in top condition — particularly his teeth — and retrieving objects.

Thrusting the diamond studded stick into her hand, the Ruby fragments began to glow brighter than their usual shimmer as the dormant magic of the staff awoke with the current of magic coming from Hermione's touch. A feeling of calm washed over the witch as her fingers, jewelled with two dainty yet luxurious rings, curled around the shaft near the engraved Alarie Crest.

The witch smiled at her son as she rolled her eyes, "You knew it would do that!"

Tom nodded and hugged her legs— not quite tall enough to reach much else. Hermione pressed a kiss to the thoughtful child's forehead; her thoughtful child. "Oh Tom," she hummed as she combed his hair with her fingers yet again, "I'm going to miss you,"

"Mum," he groaned, "You'll see me at bedtime,"

Flicking his cheek, the mother-son duo parted when the sound of the alarm informing them of someone attempting to gain access through the floo blared around the Clover Room. With a wave of her wand, lime green flames licked the barren space as two sooty figures came into view.

"Charlus!" Hermione grinned, pulling the man into a brief hug before moving to greet his wife, Dorea. "You look lovely, Dora,"

The Potter witch smiled and returned her compliments, her focus shifting towards the boy waiting patiently by the sofa Hermione had occupied moments ago.

"My, my, if it isn't Tom Riddle himself!" Dorea lifted him into a bone crushing hug to which the dark haired boy squirmed to escape from but found he couldn't — as per usual. "You were only this small the last time I saw you," she levelled her hands to just above her knee level where his shoulders slouched comfortably.

"It's been a while, Aunty," Tom kissed her hand as he had been taught and stared at Charlus expectantly, "You still owe me, Uncle."

"Owe you what, champ?"

"The new broom—"

"You seriously carried that bet through?" Hermione's scowled, her arms crossed as she raised an eyebrow, "I thought I told you to switch the prize,"

"But Mum—", "But Hermione," they said in unison.

"It's the new Comet!" Tom said as he gestured wildly in the air.

Hermione knew from the multitude of books she had read regarding quidditch that the Comet was by far slower than the brooms she had seen Harry topple over from and ride. It wasn't necessarily safer but the reduction of speed and an added number of charms could perhaps sway her into allowing the gift to be bought.

Until she remembered why she was scared of flying when a flicker of a memory of her clinging onto an invisible thestral came to view before disappearing.

Fat chance.

"I don't care if it's the new Comet or if it's bloody Neptune. That broom is not entering this house—" she caught the not-so-sneaky side-glances "— nor is it remaining at the Potters! Dorea, back me up,"

The witch gave a sympathetic smile and raised her hands in mock surrender, "I think Tom should get it, 'Mione. He won the bet fair and square,"

"But what if he falls he's only—"

"All children fall. They get back up and continue playing again. He won't die, Hermione," she placated with a comforting pat on her shoulder.

Hermione bit her lip; memories of all the near-death experiences she had experienced simply due to a factor she had no control in whatsoever flashed behind her eyes. She knew that she couldn't stop the wizard from playing quidditch and performing whatever other silly stunts people did on brooms due to the fear that had been bred from something that hadn't even occurred in the history of this time.

Reluctantly, she sighed and agreed, "Fine, but I'd like to see it first."

Nodding eagerly, Tom smirked to himself as he imagined himself being titled the world's best quidditch star — not an uncommon dream among little wizards like him. He had yet to decide which position he would prefer to play; which position he was naturally good at. With the broom, he could finally practice and play and discover what it is that was best for him and the dark haired green eyed boy simply bubbled with excitement as the countdown till his bet earnings arrived.

"Mrs Marple will be assessing you today, Tom." Hermione informed as the Potters waited by the fireplace, "I expect all Outstandings, you hear me mister?"

Tom smiled, showcasing a set of flossed teeth with a gap from one that had fallen a few weeks prior. "Full marks, Mum, I know,"

Hermione pinched his cheeks, "If you can then yes, if you can't just try your best. We'll go over your errors on the weekends,"

"Weekends?!" Tom and Charlus exclaimed with horrified expressions, prompting a startled laugh to escape Hermione at their clownery.

"Well when else will we?"

"But weekends are for playtime!" Tom cajoled.

"Sacrifices, sacrifices," Hermione hummed dismissively.

"Don't worry, champ, we'll kidnap you from this wicked wicked witch!" the male Potter said dramatically as he lifted the boy and placed him on his shoulders for the floo ride, "Away you magnificent beast!"

Hermione rolled her eyes, sending a light stinging hex to Charlus' foot to which he dodged and shouted "Oi!"

"You deserved that, Charl," Dorea giggled, waving at Hermione, "Whichever of us drops him back home will stay until you're back. Stop stressing 'Mione, you're a great instructor,"

"Eh she's a little bossy," Charlus inputted.

"And you're cocky," Hermione retorted.

"Now that the insults are out of the way," Dorea quickly diffused what may have turned into another infamous argument between the duo, "Good luck at Hogwarts, Hermione. Don't take shit from anyone and be the badass loving person you are! You'll have the whole Hogwarts population wrapped around your pinky in seconds—"

"I'm teaching at a school, not gathering troops to lead a rebellion, Dora"

The Black witch shrugged, "Either way, just make sure you overtake Dumbledore,"

The mention of the witch's former Headmaster intrigued Hermione, "How do you mean?"

Gesturing for Charlus and Tom to go to the Potter library where the little slytherin's studied would take place alongside one of Dorea's little cousins, the dark haired witch blew out a lengthy breath, "You know Phineas Black, correct?"

"Ex-Headmaster of Hogwarts,"

Dorea nodded her confirmation, "He reported to my Uncle - and subsequently all of us - that Dumbledore keeps frequently disappearing from the castle grounds during his free hours,"

"And that is a concern?"

"He keeps going out in a disguise," the witch supplied, "Grandfather Phineas managed to read a letter that was in his office that the old man accidently left out."

"It's a letter, what's the big deal?" the instinctive urge to defend her idolised mentor bubbled within her gut though another voice inside was reprimanding it for reasons that would be revealed to her within the next few seconds.

"It was addressed by Gellert Grindelwald,"

Hermione froze — a reaction the other witch had expected given the fabricated lies she had been told by the caramel, curly haired witch. She assumed that it was due to the silent terror by the dark wizard that had yet to reach the ears of the public was the reason for her shocked trance. She couldn't be further from the truth.

In the books of history Hermione Granger had devoured at Hogwarts, the dates of when Grindelwald and Dumbledore entered some form of amorous relationship were not disclosed; however, she hadn't bothered to monitor the events and movements of the old wizard as her attentions had been directed onto raising her son, Tom.

The witch didn't know whether the events would occur similarly to the timeline she had destroyed and arrived from. All she could do now was keep a close eye and do whatever she could to ensure that the two formidable, powerful wizards would not harm the number of people that Lord Voldemort had — a larger staggering figure than what the WW2 dark wizard had 'achieved'.

No, she couldn't allow for her life to be torn apart once again. Not when she now had more than simply herself and her friends to look out for. Not while there was another equally as deadly war occurring in the non-magical realm.

Hermione needed Tom to grow up in peace, far away from anything remotely similar to the dratted orphanage he had been forced into. She would be dammed if years of work would be washed down the drain simply due to two megalomaniacs unable to wrap a leash around their hunger for power.

Tom Riddle despite being of a young age was still an incredibly intelligent, powerful boy. His magic in this timeline continued to bend to his every will without the requirement of a wand and the curly hair witch had a hunch that his power field would overtake hers once he aged around twelve or at latest thirteen. Even with the absence of nefarious, malnourished children, Tom retained what Hermione could only suppose was an instinctive defensive attitude towards anything and everything that he was wholly unfamiliar with.

Perhaps even he too would develop a growing lust for power; however, Hermione hoped that she would be able to help him curb the urges and guide him onto a path that was beneficial for the both of them. He would be as powerful as Dumbledore and Grindelwald, and if things turned south and the extent of his power was discovered then he would be positioned by the remainder of society to take charge.

Hermione didn't want that. No child should have to suffer like she had at the hands of— well anyone. Albus Dumbledore had been considered the epitome of light during the era in which she fought the noseless Lord Voldemort however in this one, she was steadily becoming aware of his darker, manipulative tendencies and she thoroughly hoped that neither her nor those she loved would be sucked into his diabolical plans.

Hermione wouldn't allow it. Not when she had herself, her son, and his defenceless father to look after.


End file.
